Flames first.
Orange and billowing, blowing out of the garage with the force of the concussion that hadn’t yet rocked him.
By the time his feet had started to move, the blast was tearing through the garage, through the back portion of the house, through his soul.
There wasn’t enough left to identify in the end, although DNA had confirmed both Paulie and Pinter. But that’s not what Hunter saw in his dreams. In his dreams, he saw skeletons, scorched and shaking, sitting in the burned-out husk of the limousine, jaws locked open in an endless scream.
That had been eight months ago, and Hunter was beginning to realize he wasn’t ever going to shake that vision, not even in sleep, and his class on computers in criminal justice wasn’t much of a motivation to roll out of bed. But Hunter had depended on routine and order to get him through the last eight months, and today was no different. He sat through the lecture, making the occasional note about something that had been changed from when he’d gotten a similar course in the military, then all but sleepwalked back to the parking structure that held his car.
Where he saw another one.
God. These fuckers. So transparent. Watching their victims—usually females but sometimes a smaller, skinnier male who looked defenseless—waiting for a chance to strike. Sometimes it was just a purse snatching or a mugging, but others? Hunter was pretty sure he’d stopped something else entirely when he took those guys out.
Because when he saw them, he always took them out.
This guy was following a pretty college girl, the hood of his navy blue sweatshirt pulled over his face, his hands in his pockets. Hunter was positive he had a weapon in there, and that made it even better.
These guys were proving to be what really got Hunter out of bed. He started tracking the predator through the garage on the heels of the girl, who was dressed fashionably but impractically in a miniskirt and boots, her thin wool coat pulled as far down as it could go. Hunter wondered if it was a waitressing uniform and felt bad for her. Any man who thought that was a good idea in Chicago in the winter should be forced to wear a Speedo to work. He watched her get into the elevator, the predator at her heels, and called, “Hold that door!”
She did, thank God. Maybe she felt sorry for him in his short leather coat with no gloves. He gave her a brief smile and pushed the button one floor up from hers.
When she got out, Hunter subtly placed himself in front of her would-be assailant, blocking him, and wasn’t surprised when he felt the point of a knife at his waist and heard a harshly whispered, “Out of my way, asshole,” as the doors closed.
In one clean move, Hunter broke the guy’s nose with an elbow shot, and then, still using his elbow, went to work on his ribs, his liver, his kidneys, and anything else within reach. The door opened with a ding just as the guy fell to the floor, and to Hunter’s horror, a young man wearing black slacks, black boots, black fedora, and a black sweater under a black leather coat slid in, arching an eyebrow at the groaning mugger on the floor of the filthy elevator, holding his ribs.
“Nice work,” he said. “I was waiting for Shaundra when she got out. She said you’d blocked this perp.”
Hunter’s eyes went wide. “You were—”
“This guy’s gotten three girls this month,” he said, jaw hardening. “One of them was Shaundra’s roommate. Apparently he likes miniskirts and boots—fucking perv.” The kid shook his head. “And he’s brutal. Lots of blood and tearing with this one. I hope he gets a fencepost up his ass. Anyway, nicely done. You want to help me drop this asshole in front of the local precinct?”
“He’s seen my face,” Hunter rasped.
The kid—God, how old was he?—dropped to his haunches, pulled out a small canister, and cold-bloodedly pepper sprayed the guy in the eyes, ignoring his scream as he stood up, wiped the canister down with an astringent wipe he’d pulled out of his pocket, and then went to work on his fingers. “Forgot the gloves. Goddammit. Anyway, good luck trusting him to identify anybody now. Here—they’ve got his DNA on file and the precinct’s around the corner. If we cut through the bottom of the garage, we can drop this sack of shit and retreat.”
“And then what?”
The kid grinned, a hint of Peter Pan in his smile, even though he had small, perfect masculine features with sloe-dark eyes.
“Then I take you out to coffee.”
And that had been how Hunter had met Josh Salinger, a young man who would never be his lover but would definitely change his life.
After Josh Salinger showed him Grace
HUNTER LIKED the shadows. He liked leaning against a wall or a doorframe or even sitting on the floor next to the couch, where people wouldn’t see him.
When people couldn’t see him, they couldn’t account for what he might do, and when they couldn’t account for what he might do, he had the advantage.
Right now, he was leaning in the corner between the wet bar and the wall, with a perfect view of the couch, conversation pit, and television in Josh Salinger’s parents’ basement.
Of course, Josh Salinger’s parents—all three of them—had money, lots of it, so the basement was three times the size of any apartment Hunter had ever lived in and was comfortable as hell, with giant cutouts of every sport known to Chicago decorating the Chicago-red wall behind the couch. The furniture was red leather, the carpet was Cubs blue, and while it could have been an incredibly tacky sort of space, the gleaming bar and tiled kitchenette area, as well as the massive audio/visual setup, made it utilitarian and practical too.
The practicality was the sort of class Hunter could really get into.
He’d been invited to live upstairs in the mansion itself, and though he’d taken a room, he’d kept his loft in one of the high-rises off Wacker. Most of his apartment had been converted into a workout space anyway. His room at the Salinger mansion felt more like home.
And here, in this covert corner of his home, he listened to Grace’s friend spill her problems to Josh Salinger’s Uncle Danny as if the slender little man could make all the world’s ills go away.
For his part, Danny “Lightfingers” Mitchell—who went by Benjamin Morgan at the moment—listened, his sober, tip-tilted hazel eyes alight and mouth pulled up at the corner as though a comforting smile was only a breath away.
“So, darling, Grace tells us—”
“Grace?” The girl, Tabitha, frowned at Danny, who gave a little nod to Dylan Li.
Who preened.
“It’s what we call him,” Danny told her. “God knows why. Boy could destroy a china shop with one go-round, couldn’t he?” Danny spoke with a trace of a European accent, often slipping into a faux Irish brogue, but he could swear like any kid from the Jersey shore when put to it.
Tabby smiled and went to wipe her eyes on her shoulder, but Felix Salinger, Josh’s father and the love of Lightfingers Mitchell’s life, beat her to the punch with an offered linen handkerchief—probably monogrammed.
Well, Josh’s family was loaded to the gills, but from what Hunter could see, they’d earned it.
“Dylan said you all could probably help me.” She looked around the den, seeming to notice the number of faces she didn’t recognize, and frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t understand how, though.”