Nightcrawler (Trackers #1)

Chapter Four

RAVEN

I couldn’t believe it when Gemma Monroe’s giant silicone boob prosthetic fell off her chest and bounced on the hardwood floors at her feet between the former porn star and the two of us. When I looked over at Trigg, his mouth was hanging open and his brown eyes were as wide as saucers. Up this close, I noticed his long, curling, black lashes made his eyes look bigger than any man’s should. The lines at the corners of his eyes crinkled but he didn’t crack a smile even though I knew he wanted to.

“Ahh!” Gemma let out a bloodcurdling scream and scooped up the prosthetic to run from the room, slamming the door to Passantino’s bathroom a split second later.

“Gemma! Gemma!” Passantino said, turning and running after her, giving us both a view of a butt which looked quite a bit more toned than I would have expected on a sixty-three-year-old man. Obviously, the weight room was working for him. He tried the knob and finding it locked, pounded on the bathroom door as he kept calling her name. Beside me, Trigg pulled his phone from his pocket and walked over to the empty box before taking a picture of it as well as several snaps of the room and the bed which had been thoroughly mussed up. I walked over and tapped him on the shoulder, and he turned to look at me.

“What?” he asked, frowning as he continued taking pictures, including ones of the double doors to the bedroom.

I followed him out into the hallway, watching him take several more pictures of the outside of the doors, the hallway, and the landing to the stairs. “What are you doing?” I asked, totally perplexed.

He shot me a glance and it was—as expected with this man—less than friendly. “I’m collecting evidence to present to GMS Insurance when I have my boss demand we be paid in full for this stupid, fucking bounty. Clearly, these two were in on the fraud together.”

“What?” I asked, frowning at him.

“Don’t tell me that never occurred to you,” he said, thinning his lips. “Hell, maybe you knew all about it. You work for them.” He started heading for the stairs and I followed, feeling my blood boiling.

“How dare you say that?” I shouted. I almost had to jog to keep up with him as he began running downstairs, taking the treads two at a time. “I want you to know I put myself at considerable risk following you in here. Passantino was right about breaking in, not to mention opening his safe. We’re technically burglars.” By the time we hit the landing between the first and second floor, I was getting up a real head of steam. Just because this bounty hunter missed out on yet another bounty, didn’t mean I was involved. “I lost the recovery fee too, you know.”

Huerta stopped halfway down the final set of stairs and spun to face me. The thunderous expression on his face could have stopped a train. He was in a rage and I couldn’t understand what the big, fucking deal was. Bounty hunters and recovery agents like me lost out on bounty all the time. What was the problem here?

He lifted a hand and pointed to my face. “What would you know about losing out on a recovery fee? You sure as hell don’t need it, Mathis. Not with that brand-new monster truck you drive. When have you ever had to worry about whether your rent gets paid or whether you’ll come home and find an eviction notice stapled to your front door for nonpayment of rent?” he roared. Without waiting for me to answer him one way or another, he turned and ran the last few steps, hitting the marble floor of the foyer and turning toward the dining room.

I swallowed, feeling a mixture of hurt…stung by Trigg Huerta’s words. Above all, I felt anger welling up from inside me. “Hey! Stop and talk to me, Huerta,” I shouted after him, hot on his heels, and getting more agitated with every step. “Hey, you! Don’t presume to know me or my life! You have no idea who I am or what I’ve had to do to get where I am!”

He stopped in his tracks so fast; I nearly ran into him. The expression of hatred on his face was the last thing I expected. He crossed his arms over his chest as he faced me, challenging me right there, halfway between the foyer and dining room. “Oh, yeah! Why don’t you tell me your sad and sorry story, Mathis.” He looked me up and down before pointing at my shoes. “How much did those cost you? Huh , rich boy? A few hundred bucks? How much was the truck? Forty? Fifty grand?”

Right off the showroom floor, with all the bells and whistles including a tow package and upgrades, the Dodge had cost me a cool forty-eight thousand, but I wasn’t about to tell him that. I shrugged, feeling a flush of embarrassment rush over my skin. “What’s it to you and just why the hell are you so mad?”

He took a step closer, close enough to take a swing at me and hit me in the face if he’d wanted to. The sneer which appeared on his handsome lips made me shrink and take a full step back. Even though he was broader in the shoulders than I was, we were almost the same height. He had an inch or two on me at most, but he really knew how to use his size to be intimidating. I glanced at his left bicep, once again seeing his Marine Corps tat peeking out from under the fabric. He must have been a hell of a Marine.

“What’s it to me? Let me tell you, rich boy.” He shook a finger in my face. “It’s guys like you, driving around in your fancy cars, wearing your fancy shoes, and stealing bounties away from hard working stiffs, that make me just a little angry! That’s why I’m mad!”

“Maybe you haven’t noticed but bounty hunting and insurance recovery are dog eat dog—” I stopped midsentence when I saw his eyes widen. He was looking at something over my shoulder and the second the expression of horror made an appearance on his face, I heard Passantino’s shout.

“Stop right there!”

“Mathis!” Huerta shouted. “Get down!”

Before I registered what was about to happen, a shot rang out and a searing hot barb hit me in the side, whipping me around. I had no time to think before Huerta grabbed my arm and yanked me toward the kitchen, shouting at me to run. A second bullet whizzed past my head, striking the paintwork of the doorjamb between the dining room and kitchen, sending stinging shards of wood exploding outward and hitting me right in the face.

“Run!” Huerta screamed, still holding onto my bicep and dragging me through the kitchen. We made it as far as the door to the garage before a third shot slammed into the six-burner Viking range hood six inches away. Huerta yanked me through the door, slamming the solid wood fire door shut as three more shots rang out, burrowing into the closed door. That fucker meant to kill us, and my brain had finally fully caught up to what was happening. We scooted around the Lamborghini, making our way to the final door, spilling out into the side yard, with Huerta still pulling me along.

The Marine finally let go and sprinted to the iron gate to slam open the slide bolt, yanking it open. We both crashed through it and ran as fast as we could to the ivy-covered wall. I was panting like a freight train, sucking in air, feeling like I was going to pass out as I watched Huerta make a running leap, scrambling up the wall. He stopped at the top and changed position to his belly, hanging half over as he reached down with both hands.

“Take my hands!” he shouted. When I just stood there in shock looking up at him, he screamed again, “Take my fucking hands, Raven! I’ll pull you up!” It took the clang of the metal gate behind me to make me move. That maniac was right behind me, so I grabbed Huerta’s hands with both of mine. He slipped over the side, probably scraping his belly on the cinderblock wall as he used his own weight to pull me up and over. We both landed on our asses on the grassy parkway strip. Before I could register what had just taken place, Huerta was up, holding out a hand. “Give me your keys!”

“What?” I asked, grabbing my side as the pain finally made itself known to me.

“Give me your fucking keys, Raven! My truck is parked all the way around the block and if you haven’t noticed we’re being chased by a crazy man with a fucking gun! Not to mention the fact that you’ve been shot!”

“Shot?” I asked, scrambling to my feet as I dug out my key fob with a bloodied hand. Fuck…I’ve been shot .

I instantly gave him the keys, hearing him click open the door locks as I looked down and stared dumbly at my bloody hand. “I’ve been shot, Huerta.” The truth was only now starting to sink in. That fucker, Passantino had shot me. I hadn’t felt it until now due to the adrenaline coursing through me. Now it rolled over me, making me nauseous. I felt weak, like all the fight had left me. Just as I felt my legs going out from under me, Huerta was there, pulling one of my arms over his broad shoulders, and helping me to the open passenger door of the truck.

I looked up, fumbling for the grab bar to pull myself inside, cursing the fact that I’d bought a truck outfitted with a lift kit. The very idea of pulling myself up to get in made the wound in my side throb. Huerta wouldn’t let me think about it too long, however. He practically shoved me into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut, before he pulled himself up into the driver’s seat, and started it with a roar.

The iron gates blocking Passantino’s driveway began rolling open as the Marine gunned the engine and tore off down the street. In the side view mirror, I could see Passantino charge out into the middle of the street and stand there dressed only in pajama pants, before leveling the gun at the truck. I held my breath as Huerta screeched around a corner on two wheels. I let out a sigh and closed my eyes, trusting that he knew what to do next.

TRIGG

I glanced into the rearview mirror, checking if we were being followed, taking several turns in the neighborhood, before pulling out onto Ventura Boulevard. Huffing out a sigh of relief, I turned to look at Mathis, and wasn’t surprised to see he was unconscious, almost as gray as the leather seats in the beautiful black truck I drove. The black knit long-sleeved T-shirt he wore was soaked with blood, slowly seeping from the hole in his side. I could see a patch of pale, golden skin beneath where it was marred by a ragged bullet hole…one I needed to get a better look at.

What I needed to do was get the man to a hospital. I bit my lower lip as I cut across two lanes and made a sharp turn onto a side street. I chose the empty parking lot of a steak restaurant and nosed up to a fence. The tint should stop anyone seeing in.

I threw the truck into park and reached over, carefully easing the hem of Mathis’s shirt up so I could examine the wound. It was in his left side, a through and through, therefore less dangerous than it would have been had the bullet still been inside. I pulled off my shirt and put some pressure on the pad to stem the bleeding front and back. I needed to get it cleaned up and stitched but if I could get it to stop or slow down a lot, I could avoid the hospital.

Calmer now, knowing the bullet wound wasn’t going to kill him—having had extensive experience with all kinds of gunshot wounds in the service—I debated what to do.

I could take Mathis to his own house which would be easy enough to locate from the vehicle registration he probably kept in the glove compartment. If it wasn’t there, I could call Jamie to ask him to run Mathis’ name through the DMV, but I really didn’t want to face his wrath when he figured out I’d lost yet another bounty on top of getting Mathis shot. I looked at the big man who leaned against the passenger door. Taking him to his place was a huge risk and it probably wouldn’t have the supplies I needed to treat the wound. What if he had a wife at his place? What if—God forbid—the man had kids, and I dragged their bloodied father into the house?

In the end, I decided to take him back to my place where I could get him looked at. I had no doubt I could get Trevon to come over with his medic’s bag. Even if I hadn’t known how to handle basic first aid and do an acceptable field dressing, I still wanted him looked at by a pro. Chances were Vonne would have the antibiotics Mathis would need. He wasn’t a doctor, but he may as well have been. We’d all relied on him to keep us alive on missions. But, more than anything, I wanted to reassure myself that the bullet hadn’t nicked something vital. There wasn’t enough blood for an arterial bleed, and I couldn’t smell feces from a punctured intestine, both of which could kill him, but I wanted to be sure.

The drive to Hollywood and my rundown apartment was a good half hour. I tied the front and back pads around him with our pants’ belts looped together and pulled the seatbelt across Mathis’ side, heading out of the parking lot.

I bypassed the 405 Freeway, knowing it would already be filled with commuters at this time of day, and took the winding Laurel Canyon Boulevard up and over the hill before driving home. I was thankful we’d both come out of this alive, if not unscathed. Mathis was coming around as I hung up the phone with Vonne and was pulling into my subterranean parking garage, thankful for once, that I had a concealed place to hide his truck, in case the cops were looking for the Dodge. Who knew what Passantino had told them, if anything, about his role in the incident…or ours.

I parked in my space, grateful that the garage was empty, and jumped out of the truck, coming around quickly as Mathis sat forward. I yanked his door open, and he glanced down at me, looking confused and if possible, paler than before.

“Where…Huerta? Where are—?” Mathis suddenly winced and he turned to look down at his side as I tapped the top of his thigh. He pivoted back to me, wincing again, and stared blankly.

“Come on. We’re at my place,” I said as gently as possible. “Let’s get you inside where I can get a better look at that.”

“I need a hospital, Huerta,” he said, even as he took my hand with one of his, clinging to the grab bar with the other as he slid out of the truck with a long moan.

I was there as his legs buckled, with a shoulder under his arm, supporting his weight. He groaned as he righted himself. “Can’t take you to a hospital. This is a gunshot, Mathis. I have a friend coming over to see to it. Now, come on.”

“Your friend’s a doctor?” he asked, wincing as we walked unsteadily toward the door. Getting him up two flights of stairs was going to be tricky since he was shaking badly and weak in the knees.

“My friend’s a medic and he has everything we need to get this taken care of. Come on now. I need you to be strong. We have two flights of stairs here.”

“Okay, Trigg. I’m good.”

I propped open the dirty, metal door, helping him enter the dark stairwell, suddenly conscious of the fact that it stunk to high heaven from refuse my neighbors left around. I could never understand why people didn’t take more pride in their environment, regardless of how humble it may be. I’d seen cleaner hovels in Brazilian Favelas and Afghan mud huts. The building itself was old, one of the original two-story apartment buildings built in the 1930s as housing for folks employed in a myriad of businesses surrounding the rapidly growing Hollywood movie industry. Its proximity to the studios made it a nice place to live back then. Years of neglect as the neighborhood got seedier, made it smell like mold and mildew as well as human filth.

Mathis grunted periodically as we climbed the two flights of stairs to my floor, and then leaned heavily against me as I pushed the door to the hallway open. We made our way down the enclosed hallway to my apartment as I pulled out my keys. By the time we got there, Mathis was soaked with sweat, and I was pretty sure he’d bled all the way to my front door. I suppose I had to be grateful that we’d made it this far without running into one of my neighbors.

Thankfully, most of them worked odd hours, many employed in lower-wage food service or gig occupations. Several were rideshare workers, driving Ubers and Lyfts as side jobs. I liked most of them, but I wasn’t ready to explain a trail of blood to the front door. Once Vonne got here, I’d have to go see what kind of trail we’d left. The last thing either of us needed was a nosy cop turning up to follow drops of blood to my door. I knew I’d have to get Cassidy and Mike to help clean up that scenario, and it was the last thing I wanted. I pushed into the apartment and was immediately greeted by Stanley—my four-month-old kitten—who came meowing up to me as he charged across the room. He stopped about six feet from us and hissed as he caught a whiff of the copper scent of blood coating Mathis.

“Oh,” Mathis said, sounding exhausted but happy, “you have a kitten.” He wiggled out from under my arm which loosely held him up and bent to hold out his hand, going to his knees before I could catch him. Stanley took off running, darting under my hide-a-bed, the only furniture in the room other than a couple of rickety pieces I’d picked up from yard sales. My single room apartment was not only small but poor and dreary. Stanley’s white butt disappeared under the bed I hadn’t stopped to make up before leaving this morning.

“Christ, Mathis, you wanna hit your head?” I growled, squatting and sliding both arms around his midsection from behind, before straightening with him. His body was solid and alive as I got him back on his feet and helped him to my bed where I sat him down. He grunted in pain as he flopped back onto it, and I instantly regretted not stripping off his bloody clothes beforehand. He began bleeding all over my single set of cheap sheets almost immediately. The blood loss had slowed as we drove, but the pads were saturated and getting him from his truck to the apartment surely had opened up his wounds again. My sheets and probably the mattress were going to be soaked before all was said and done.

“Don’t move, Mathis. I’m gonna go wipe up the trail of blood you left and then get something to clean you up,” I said, getting only a grunt in reply as I headed to the closet where I had clean towels. I made him new pads and hastily wrapped saran wrap around his body to hold them taut and put some pressure on.

I grabbed some cleaning supplies and gasped when I saw myself in the mirror. No shirt and I was covered in blood too. After a careful poke around, I realized it was all Mathis’s. Thank God. I yanked a black T-shirt over my head.

“Be right back.” I didn’t want to leave him, but I didn’t want anyone reporting the bloody trail either. I grabbed my keys and locked him in as I went in search of the trail we’d left. I was very glad I did because he’d bled all the way from the truck to my door. It took five minutes to wipe up all the droplets I could find before returning to the apartment. He was lying right where I’d left him. I grabbed more clean towels and went to the kitchen. After soaking them in a large bowl filled with hot water and grabbing a bar of strong soap, I headed back to the bed. He looked like he’d passed out again. “Mathis?” I asked quietly.

“It’s Raven,” he said, opening his eyes. I noted how blue they were, kind of a cobalt color I’d never seen on a man before. For a second, I wondered whether he wore colored contact lenses. I wouldn’t put it past him. He certainly had the money for it. They were a strange color, but oddly, seemed to fit with hair so black it had an almost blue tinge to it. He had a long, straight, prominent nose and high cheekbones both of which were peppered with splinters which would have to be dug out. Truthfully, I hadn’t even noticed his bloodied face or realized just how close the bullet shot into the kitchen door jamb had come to hitting him in the face. He was luckier than any guy I’d ever met. Had he been anyone other than a rival, I might have admired his good looks because the man was simply stunning…and probably straight. “This is your place, huh ?” he asked.

I frowned as I stood over him holding the bowl. “Yeah. I can’t take you to the hospital as I said, but I have a buddy coming over to stitch you up and poke around to make sure the bullet didn’t fragment inside you.”

“That sounds…painful,” he said, attempting to sit up and clutching at his side, crying out a little.

“I’m guessing it’s no more painful than being shot,” I growled, stepping forward and setting down the water bowl. “My buddy, Vonne, should have something to help with the pain. Here,” I said, holding out a hand. “I need to get that shirt off so I can clean the wound. Let me help you sit up.” He took the hand I held out without comment, letting me pull him to a seated position. Once he was balanced, I bent and reached for the hem of his shirt.

“I can do it.”

“No, you can’t. Just sitting is using up more energy than you have to spare at the moment, so just sit there and let me do the work, Mathis.”

“Raven.”

I ignored him and helped him out of his shirt, getting my first look at the tiny silver bars which pierced both nipples on a hairless chest. A lot of native men have no chest hair and little body hair elsewhere, but he didn’t look like he shaved. Grooming aside, for the first time, it made me wonder about Mathis’ sexual orientation. I’d seen a lot of naked guys in my life, but I’d sure as hell never met a straight one with pierced nipples. Shoving all thoughts about that aside for the moment, I let my gaze slide over his body. Raven Mathis was well-built, not overly muscled, but he clearly worked out. Then again, he appeared younger than me by several years. His skin was tawny, if not currently a bit pale, and at the moment, still bleeding.

I examined his wound. Based on the size of the entrance and exit wounds, I guessed Passantino’s gun had been shooting small caliber bullets, probably a .22. I hadn’t stopped to look at the gun or notice the make and model of it, but I sure as hell was going to read Jamie the riot act for leaving out the fact that the man had a personal firearm on the premises. I cleaned up both wounds and put pressure on them with fresh pads to staunch the blood flow which had started up in earnest as I’d worked. I checked my watch and the moment I did, heard a key in the door. Raven’s head, which had been lolling back, instantly shot up as he looked at the door.

“Relax. It’s just my friend, Vonne,” I said, patting his thigh as I saran wrapped him again and stood up. Seconds later, Trevon Jackson stepped into the apartment carrying a beat-up blue backpack I was all too familiar with. Everyone in my unit had been the recipient of Vonne’s ministrations at one time or another and I was grateful he was my friend.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Trigg,” the man said the moment he spotted us surrounded by bloody clothes, towels, and sheets, “what in the ever-loving fuck have you gone and done this time?”