Servicing the Target (Masters of the Shadowlands #10)(14)

She eyed the dark clouds and sighed.





That night, drenched to the skin and getting grumpier by the minute, Anne knocked on the fugitive’s door. Covert body armor when soaked? Really heavy.

The gray-haired woman who opened the door saw Anne’s dark green polo shirt with “THE BROTHERS BAIL BONDS” logo and the weapons belt with the .38 S&W and Taser. Dismay filled her face.

Pushing her wet hair out of her face, Anne spoke loudly to be heard over the rolling thunder and noise of the wind and rain. It was doubtful the fugitive would be out partying in this mess. “Ma’am, I’m sorry to report that your son missed his court date. Is he here?”

“Ah. No. No, he isn’t.”

The poor woman. Mrs. Wheeler was caught in an impossible situation. No matter how much a mother wanted to protect her offspring, some children made that almost impossible.

The lady was also a really poor liar.

Pity softened Anne’s voice even as her hand behind her back motioned for her team to get positioned. “Mrs. Wheeler, you put your house up as collateral for your son’s bail. I’m so sorry, but if I don’t take Edward in, you will lose this place.”

The woman’s face paled. “I can’t afford to lose…”

God, this was the saddest part of the job—seeing the trauma that a criminal inflicted on his own family. “You tried your best.” Anne upped the dominance in her tone, the one that had her slaves kneeling without a thought. “Let us in now, Ma’am.”

The woman stepped back.

Anne’s pulse increased. The skip had a history of violence, one reason she’d called in the team instead of picking him up herself.

Mitchell had already disappeared around the back to watch the rear and south side of the house. Dude stationed himself to guard the front and north side. They sounded off in her walkie-talkie headset.

Exits secured, Anne entered.

Aaron, a retired cop from Texas, followed her in. A good man; a good teammate.

A second later, her cousin, Robert, swaggered in, hand on his holstered firearm. The same weapon that a fugitive had kicked out of his hand last week.

If Anne were given the choice, the idiot wouldn’t be issued anything deadlier than a squirt gun. He sure wouldn’t be on this team that she’d built. But her uncles—the owners of the bail company—had, as usual, caved in to his whining.

The distinctive click and thud of someone playing pool came from a room to the left. At least one person was in there.

Anne glanced right and noted what appeared to be a couple of bedrooms and a bathroom. “Robert, check the rooms to the right, please, and remain on guard here. Call if you find the skip. Aaron, let’s go left.”

Robert puffed up, mouth turning mulish. “But, I want to—”

“Do it now.” Anne’s cold stare reminded him that she was in charge.

He stomped off, his “f*cking bitch” quite audible.

She exchanged exasperated glances with Aaron, then led the way across the faded carpet to where the dining room had been turned into a game room. That poor mother.

A quick glance showed a man playing a solitary game of pool.

Anne mentally checked his appearance against the arrest record photo she’d obtained during preparation. One hundred percent match.

She walked into the room. “Mr. Edward Wheeler, I’m with The Brothers Bail Bonds and here to pick you up. There is a bench warrant out for your failure to appear at your court date.”

“Hell with that.” Starting toward the kitchen door, he glanced out the window and spotted Mitchell in the middle of the backyard. Escape route blocked, Wheeler spun—and charged Anne.

Fun. Smiling slightly, she stepped out of his way, caught his arm on the way past, and redirected him into the doorframe.

He hit with a pleasant thud—but hey, she’d avoided sending him into the wall where the mother’s pictures might be damaged.

Aaron tackled him.

On his stomach, Wheeler kicked and cursed, but couldn’t get enough leverage to struggle effectively.

What a jerk. Making his mother risk her house because he chose to sell meth to children.

Anne pulled her cuffs off her belt and secured his left wrist as he swore at her, using the f-word as a verb, adjective, and adverb.

“Young men today lack originality,” Aaron complained. Then again, he’d married a history professor who could curse for hours without using a four-letter word.

“There he is!” Robert charged through the door, thumping into her as he tried to grab the perp’s free arm. “Give me your wrist, you *.”

Anne scowled, easily pinned the skip’s tattooed arm, and finished cuffing him. “Get back to your post, Ro—”

A roar came from the doorway.

Anne caught movement from the corner of her eye and flung herself sideways. The boot aimed for her head slammed into her hip. Pain blasted into her. The kick knocked her into the pool table, and her head hit with a nasty crack.

Ears ringing, she shook her head, trying to clear her vision. Son of a bitch. Apparently Wheeler had a buddy.

Footsteps thudded as he stomped toward her.

Move! She rolled, kicked, and nailed his knee. The * buddy went down like a felled bull.

Head still spinning, she pushed to her feet, tested that her leg would hold her weight—her hip screamed a protest—and delivered a carefully placed kick into his testicles that would eliminate further attacks until after they’d left.