Page 7 of Hunted

I bring my finger to my mouth and suck the cut clean, copper flooding my senses for a split second before I pull away and wipe my hand on my jeans.

‘Well,’ I say lightly, forcing my voice into shape. ‘That makes this easy. Answer’s hell no. Thanks for thinking of me, though.’

Maribel’s brows shoot up, then pull down into a suspicious scowl.

‘You don’t look busy. And since when do you turn down a lucrative gig? Did you find a pot of gold when you chased down that errant leprechaun in Ireland last month? You know any recovered treasure has to be reported and handed over to the agency.’

I roll my eyes, relieved she’s latched onto the wrong thread.

‘Reports of leprechaun loot are wildly exaggerated. That idiot didn’t even have a cracked pot to piss in. Why do you think he was running a Ponzi scheme in Galway in the first place? Desperation, Maribel. It’s always desperation.’

She grunts and straightens a stack of files that don’t need straightening.

‘Whatever you’ve got going on will have to wait. These orders came from way above my pay grade, requesting you specifically.’

Relief dies fast and ugly.

I breathe through the spike of dread, then sharpen my irritation and let that surface instead. Her features twitch.

‘I’m your top bounty hunter,’ I say. ‘True or false?’

‘Don’t start this with me, Eira,’ she warns.

I drop my boots to the floor and stand, bracing my hands on the desk. ‘True. Or. False.’

She stills, nostrils flaring. ‘You want me to blow smoke up your ass? Is that what this is?’

‘Not at all. What this is,’ I say calmly, ‘is me reminding you that I’ve earned the right to pick and choose my assignments. My contract says I don’t have to jump when you say boo. That’s for your Tier Threes and Fours, the ones you love to terrorise. As a Tier Seven, I don’t need to do jack.’

I straighten and plant my hands on my hips.

‘Although,’ I add thoughtfully, ‘maybe I do need to do Jack.’

I pull my phone from my pocket and scroll with exaggerated interest before tapping a number and lifting it to my ear.

‘Well well,’ comes the thick Irish brogue almost immediately. ‘Must be my lucky day.’

Jack O’Malley from New Jersey by way of Dublin.

Construction worker, married, father of three. I met him in a pub outside Limerick while I was tailing a leprechaun who thought offshore accounts fleeced from desperate housewives made him untouchable. Jack bought me a drink, made me laugh, offered me another.

‘Must be,’ I say. ‘Looks like I’m free for that drink after all.’

I wink at Maribel as she makes a sharp slicing gesture that clearly says we’re not finished.

I ignore it and walk out, already halfway down the hall.

She doesn’t need to know I turned Jack down two months ago. Or that I have no intention of meeting him now. I pick a time I know he’s busy, take a few extra steps to sell the lie, then murmur my apologies and cry off with practised ease.

When I step outside, the air feels lighter.

Relief pulls up from the bottom of my lungs.

I walk fast, then faster, not slowing until I’m ten blocks away from the agency office. I don’t look up at the solid black glass tower that dominates the skyline behind me.

I definitely don’t think about the man whose name made my blood turn traitor.

I’ve worked too hard to risk being in the same room where he’s mentioned.