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  “Scott Church,” Hawkins told him. “The guy was called Monk, so the doctor who fixed him up in Bangkok gave him the ID of MNK-1. But all that anybody has seen of the doctor lately is a bunch of gnawed-on bones in his lab.”

  Even the Jungle Boy blanched at that. “Kill on sight, I hope?”

  “You got it,” Hawkins said, looking around at the dumpsters and the trash and the loading docks and the dozen or so police cruisers and all the cops. “This trail is cold.”

  “Maybe we should call in Red Dog,” Creed said. “She could track the bastard.”

  Hawkins looked over at him. “Or we could track the guy he’s tracking.”

  “J.T.?” Creed asked.

  He nodded. “Looks like Con Farrel is the reason Monk is in town. King and Rock just got in the way.”

  “So it’s back to the restaurant … or not …” Creed’s voice trailed off, and he turned and looked to the west.

  Yeah, they were both on the same wavelength here.

  “I know where I’d go if I was in trouble on this side of town,” Creed continued.

  Hawkins knew where he’d go, too.

  “Alazne’s.” The witch had some definite mojo she’d worked for the chop shop boys over the years. He didn’t claim to understand it, but he’d sure as hell benefited from it. They all had. “Do you think J.T. remembers Alazne?”

  Creed looked at him like he had to be kidding.

  “It was a long time ago,” he said in his own defense.

  “It was sex,” Creed said. “Wild, witchy-woman sex. No guy forgets that.”

  Hawkins wasn’t so sure. “He doesn’t remember anything, total amnesia.”

  “Bull,” Creed said. “We’ve been chasing him all over Denver, and he hasn’t made a wrong turn yet. He knows this town inside out and backward, the same way he always did. He was here at Mama’s and got into one helluva fight. He’s in trouble. He’s still got Jane. He’s lost his transportation, and Alazne’s is just up the hill. This is a no-brainer, Christian. We’ve at least got to check it out.”

  Yeah, maybe Creed was right. It was a long shot, but long shot or not, they were running out of time.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Jane slowly wound herself up from a drowsy sleep, waking to a familiar sound: the deep-throated growl and chassis-shaking roar of Steele Street iron pulling to a stop in front of the house. Her money said Roxanne and Angelina had arrived, and wherever the two Detroit girls were, Christian Hawkins and Creed Rivera were bound to be with them.

  I’m saved. The thought went through her on a wave of relief.

  Or maybe she’d already been saved.

  She looked over at the man sleeping by her side. He was so beautiful, the lines of his features so perfectly formed. Not even the scars running from his temple down to his jaw could take away from the cleanly chiseled artistry of his face. His nose was straight, his mouth firm, his dark hair cut short and tousled. His cheekbones were high, adding a hint of elegance to his bad-boy edge and reminding her of Kid. There was a reason she’d fallen so hard for him at first sight all those years ago, and nothing in him had changed enough to change her feelings. He was still the Guardian.

  She let out a soft breath. Damn. She was usually more careful, always more careful than she’d been with him, but oh, God, what he’d done to her—made love to her, cherished her, and held her like he was never going to let her go.

  She was such a fool.

  She was so tempted to wake him and keep running, to the ends of the earth if that’s what it took to keep him by her side—but that was no good. He belonged to Steele Street, and whatever she could do to get him back there was the best for him. With the chop shop boys close outside, she only needed to hold on to him for a few more minutes. Wherever he’d been, whatever he’d done, whatever had been done to him, they were his best chance.

  Which left her to wonder if he was her best chance.

  Salvation and acceptance, that’s what she’d been looking for all these years, a few times in some pretty unlikely places, like with the art crowd in Los Angeles during the years she’d worked in Katya Hawkins’s gallery there. She’d met her share of movie stars, politicians, newsroom anchors, and artists, and been charmed by more of them than she could recall.

  But it was men like the Steele Street crew who had always grabbed her the hardest, captured her attention the surest, and held it year after year. The first night she’d seen J.T. on the street, she’d recognized him for what he was: a kindred spirit, a warrior, a fighter like her.

  And that hadn’t changed. It would never change.

  She heard the muted thunk of car doors being shut and turned deeper into his arms, smoothing her fingers across his cheek and up into his hair. She could think of only one thing that could last as long as her fascination with him had: love, and it demoralized the hell out of her.

  A smile curved his mouth in his sleep, and she melted even more inside. This was so impossible. J. T. Chronopolous barely existed. There was only this man, Con, and yet he was everything she remembered.

  “Jane,” he murmured, his eyes slowly opening, his voice soothingly low and deep. His arm came tighter around her, pulling her in even closer, until her breasts were up against his chest and his hand could slide down over her hip. “Do they still call you Robin Rulz?”

  She let out a short laugh. “Not to my face.”

  “So no more princess of the underground?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I’m completely legit now, have been for years.” Where were Christian and Creed? she wondered. She should have heard them coming up the walk by now.

  He nodded thoughtfully and reached up to smooth a few stray strands of her hair behind her ear. “You’re thinking awfully hard about something.”

  She gave a little shrug. “It’s been a big night.”

  “Yeah, it has.” His smile broadened. “So you run an art gallery and sell paintings for a living.” His gaze was steady on her, with the smile lingering about his lips.

  “Yes,” she said, then decided to take another chance. “All kinds of paintings. We even had one of you for a while.”

  At that, his smile faded. “Of me?”

  She nodded. “The artist, Nikki McKinney, used a drawing of you made by a friend you had back then, Skeeter Bang.”

  He seemed to think that over for a moment or two, before speaking. “Skeeter?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “No.” He gave his head a slight shake. “I don’t remember anybody named Skeeter. I remember you.” He bent his head and kissed her, running his tongue across her lips and, when she opened for him, plundering her mouth.

  And she melted again. No woman in her right mind would try to resist him. He tasted like heaven, was built like a god, and had the heart of a warrior. Memories, whatever he had or didn’t have, would have to wait—but her chance to turn him over to Steele Street wouldn’t wait. A few more seconds, she promised herself, just a few more of sinking into his magic, then she’d break off the kiss, grab her dress, and race for the door.

  Oh, right, she thought, doubting herself when second after second passed and she did nothing to implement her plan. He felt too good, and then he felt even better. He pressed against her, and desire rose between them like a flood tide.

  Oh, hell. She was going down in flames, without putting up even the smallest fight.

  But the fight wasn’t hers to lose.

  Between one breath and the next, he stiffened in her arms.

  “Get dressed,” he said suddenly, and was moving away from her, out of the bed.

  He stepped into the hall and brought back her clothes.

  “What’s your address?” he asked, tossing the clothes and her boots on the bed and reaching for his jeans.

  “My …?” Things were moving too fast. He quickly buttoned his jeans and grabbed his T-shirt, slipping it over his head while he headed back toward the hall.

  Cripes. She’d never seen anyone move so fluidly, with so m
uch speed and surety.

  “Address,” he repeated, stopping at the bedroom door to listen.

  She heard it then, too, men talking outside. It was definitely Creed. She would recognize the Jungle Boy’s voice anywhere.

  Con looked back at her and held her gaze. “I want to see you later, if that’s all right with you.”

  “Yes,” she said, clutching her dress to her chest. “Yes.” Absolutely. “Twenty-one eleven Blake Street, number five-oh-eight. I have the loft condo on the top floor.”

  “I’ll find it,” he said, the words rock-solid, like a promise, like the man.

  “Where are you going? Why … what, I …” She didn’t know what to think. He had knelt down and was putting on his boots.

  Trying to catch up, she started scrambling into her dress, dragging it over her head, reaching for her panties, getting off the bed.

  “I have a job to do,” he said, quickly tying his laces. “A guy named Randolph Lancaster. You can tell that to your friends, if they don’t already know he’s been jerking their chains. When I’m done meeting with Lancaster, I’ll come to you.”

  “But I—”

  He came back around the bed and cupped her face in his palms—and he kissed her, his mouth hard, the kiss hot and wet and deep. Even when he pulled back, he continued to cup her face in his hands.

  “Those are your friends out there, the guys from Steele Street. I need you to go with them. You’ll be safe, and—”

  “No,” she said, grabbing on to his arms. “No, you’re not going anywhere without me.”

  “Jane—”

  “No.” Her pulse was suddenly racing with the realization that he was leaving her. “Whatever you need to do … meet with this … this guy Lancaster, I can help you. I can—”

  “You can help me by going with your friends,” he interrupted her. “I’m leaving. Do not stay in this house alone once I’m gone. You know what’s out there, and it knows you’re here. You won’t be safe.”

  Oh, God.

  “Jane.” He kissed her again, his breath soft against her lips, his hands gentle on her face. “You’re important to me, very important. I’ll come to you tonight.”

  And then he was gone. With more speed than she could comprehend, he was out of the bedroom, out of the kitchen, and out of the house—damn near silently—and she was left holding her shoes in one hand, her underwear in the other, and wondering what in the hell to do next.

  “Oh, whoa,” Creed said. “Oh, fuck.”

  “Okay, let’s not dwell on this.”

  “I’m not fucking dwelling, but geezus.”

  Geezus was right. Hawkins switched off his flashlight. They’d seen enough.

  “I think we should bag it,” Creed said, still looking down at what could only be somebody’s upchucked dinner, which just happened to be a chunk of King Banner’s arm and a piece of blue shirt.

  It was the shirt that had given it all away.

  And yes, they should bag it up as evidence. They might have walked right by it on their way up the sidewalk, but the stench had been overwhelming, demanding further investigation. The only good thing in the night air was the smoky remnants of Alazne’s smudge pot.

  “We’ll call Loretta,” he said. “Tell her to get somebody up here. We may be close to having this bastard cornered. Do you want the front or the back?”

  “The back,” Creed said, checking the load on his .45-caliber semiautomatic H&K man-eater.

  It was damn dark in the back of the house, but Creed was good in the dark, always had been.

  Hawkins was reaching for his own pistol when Dylan’s voice came at him from over the radio. He drew the weapon and press-checked the chamber as he listened.

  “Roger and out,” he said when Dylan signed off.

  “What?” Creed asked.

  “Kid and Zach have Lancaster. They’re taking him to Steele Street, and Dylan wants us back at the homestead.”

  “So let’s do this.”

  They started up the walk to the front door when the man they’d been chasing half the night and halfway around the world stepped out from the side of the house.

  They instantly had Conroy Farrel in their sights.

  Geezus. J.T.

  “Let me see your hands!” Hawkins shouted. Geezus. J.T.

  Farrel obeyed, lifting his hands shoulder height, showing Hawkins his open, empty palms.

  “She’s inside. Jane. Take her with you,” Farrel said. His voice was calm, his presence commanding every ounce of Hawkins’s attention.

  And then he was gone, moving so fast, it was almost as if he’d simply disappeared.

  Creed started out after him but stopped in his tracks when the front door slammed open.

  “Christian!” Jane called out. “Creed! Don’t shoot! It’s me. Jane!”

  “Are you alone?” He kept moving quickly forward with his gun returned to a low-ready angle. Creed peeled off, heading down the side yard.

  “J.T. just went out the back door!” she yelled, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Creed break into a run, but that wasn’t going to help. The Jungle Boy was fast but nothing like what they’d just seen.

  Jane stepped onto the porch, looking like hell, her hair wild, her dress torn. There was blood on her knee and a bruise on her forehead.

  “You can catch him,” she said breathlessly, her face pale. “He’s after someone, J.T. is, but there’s this … this monster, and he, and he killed these men at Mama’s, and he chased me, and J.T.—and, Christian, you have to help him. I think he’s sick, and—”

  In two more steps he had his arm around her. She was trembling.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “N-no, not hurt, just scared. You have to help him.”

  “That’s exactly what we’re—” A shot rang out from the back of the house, a .45, and he put her aside with a barked order. “Get down, stay put.” Then he was on the run.

  Get down, stay put. Get down, stay put.

  Too late.

  Monk had seen it all, heard it all, and the moment Farrel had taken off, he’d moved from his downwind hiding place to the witch’s stinking roof. It had cost him, and now he was bleeding, but the night still belonged to him. Christian Hawkins turned on his heels and headed for the back door, following the shot, and Monk dropped silently from the roof to the porch and grabbed the girl.

  It’s me. Jane!

  He was not gentle with Jane. But the asshole in the backyard had not been gentle with him, skinning him with a .45-caliber slug across his cheekbone.

  Too fast. Too fast for them all. From one split second to the next, he was never where someone thought he would be. When he was on the run, no part of him was static.

  Keep moving. Keep moving.

  Wrenching Jane up from her crouched position, he cuffed her up the side of the head, hard. She went instantly limp.

  Just what he needed.

  Throwing her over his shoulder, he ran into the night, staying in backyards, leaping fences. A man shouted behind him, and he heard the sound of running feet. Lightning flashed on the eastern plains, followed by a long roll of thunder, and then came the roar of an engine firing up.

  Fools.

  They would never catch him. He was headed straight into the heart of their fortress, 738 Steele Street, but they would never catch him.

  They had Lancaster, the bastards. He’d heard them talking. Conroy Farrel would figure it out soon enough and head to Steele Street, too, and as soon as he killed Farrel, he would lay his enemy’s body at his master’s feet.

  And then he would kill his master, the heartless bastard who had made him and left him alone in the world to suffer his pain.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Maggie.

  The name had frozen Scout solid. Maggie.

  Hell, she’d actually seen the girl, so why was it so awful knowing her name?

  Because Jack should have forgotten it.

  Screw having him stick around. She needed him gone, the farth
er away the better.

  Maggie.

  Geez, that ticked her off—a blond bimbo in Key Largo? That was the kind of girl he liked?

  For four years, she’d been running around with her heart on her sleeve for Jack Traeger. A girl really needed to be smarter than that.

  And where was Con?

  All sorts of warning bells were going off inside her, and if it had been up to her, they’d have been long gone. This town was no good for them. Something was wrong here, terribly wrong.

  “We need to get the hell out of here, Jack. This place …” She couldn’t even find the right word for the kind of dread she felt. “It’s a … a bad place.”

  Right, Jack silently agreed, watching Scout pace their room at the Armstrong. This was a terrible place, one of the classiest old hotels he’d ever been in, but he was stuck here with the woman of his dreams, and she’d been getting busy with some other guy.

  He should have seen that coming. He should have headed that off at the pass a long time ago.

  Dammit. He was such a coward. He could face guys with Uzis all day long, but every time he’d thought about coming home and facing her, he’d tripped over himself and gone the other way.

  They had the television on and turned to the local news, just like Con had ordered, but they hadn’t seen anything about Rock Howe and King Banner.

  “Where is Con?” she asked, still pacing.

  That was the real problem here, not the hotel, and if Jack had known where Con was, trust him, he’d have been there by now, and they’d be making their getaway.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked. He could use a meal, that was for damn sure.

  “You’re going to eat? Now?” She looked dumbfounded by the concept. She also looked stressed out, out of sorts, and like she could sizzle and fuss herself into going ballistic any second. “You could eat with all this going on?”

  “Yes”—he tried to use his calmest tone of voice—“I’ve eaten hanging upside down off a bridge in a snowstorm. I’ve eaten in the dark, jammed sideways in a ventilation shaft for six hours. Hell, I’ve eaten street food in Bangladesh and rattlesnake in the Sonoran Desert. Trust me, I can eat room service in a four-star hotel.”