Prey (8 page)

Damn it.

He growled as he took his bottle of water to the table and sat down. He picked up his calendar and flipped through it. Yeah, everything there was duplicated on his computer, but he preferred to keep the names of clients and the dates of their scheduled hunts written down on paper. It was nice to have a computer backup, but he didn’t quite trust that the info would always be there when he needed it. Power outages, computer viruses, the blue screen of death … yeah, paper and pen were better.

The calendar was a map of his success. At first glance, it was a mess of chicken scratching. Maybe his penmanship wasn’t great, but he could decipher it and that was all that mattered. Notes were scrawled in the margins of the notebook-sized organizing calendar, plans and names were scratched out here and there, and in some places other names were added in. He didn’t get many cancellations, but it happened. Sometimes there were other clients on standby, regulars waiting to take the place of the ones who’d backed out for one reason or another—regulars who would prefer to wait for him than to sign on with someone else. He was proud of that, that for some hunters it was Dare Callahan or no one.

The calendar told him exactly what he’d known it would: He didn’t have anything scheduled for the next ten days. There was no one on standby, either; the end of the busy season was coming up fast. The last few months had been so busy, Dare wouldn’t mind taking a short break. It wasn’t like he didn’t have other things to do. The camps could always use maintenance, and he
was always behind on his paperwork, witness the mound of receipts right in front of him now. He wasn’t exactly a nester, but he needed to take care of a pile of laundry before he ran out of clothes, and he needed to lay in some more firewood for winter, and stock up on supplies. He was careful not to let himself run low on anything, but it never hurt to be prepared to hunker down for a good long while during a Montana winter. For a few minutes Dare sat there, thinking of all the things he needed to get accomplished in the next ten days.

He tapped the end of his pen against the tabletop. Flipped through the calendar with no particular purpose. Took a sip of water. Ground his teeth.

He tossed the calendar to the table, sending a few receipts dancing and flying. One fell to the floor, but Dare ignored it. Damn Harlan to hell. Why couldn’t he have kept his fucking gut instincts to himself? He’d planted a seed of worry that Dare couldn’t shake.

No way in hell was he going to tail Angie and her clients like some kind of unwanted bodyguard … or stalker. If nothing else, that was a good way to get shot. Antsy tourists with itchy trigger fingers might easily mistake him for game, from a distance. And if he wore an orange vest, as he should this time of year, it would be damn tough to remain out of sight.

He didn’t think Angie would shoot him on purpose—maybe—if she caught him tailing her, but he wasn’t her favorite person, so she probably wouldn’t shed a tear over his body, either. Once again he tried to convince himself that this was
not his business
, but a little voice in the back of his head whispered that since he’d made an offer on her place, he’d made it his business. Well, shit.

He drank some more water, then capped the bottle and pushed it aside. Water wasn’t doing it for him right now, and he was out of beer—another item on his list of things to get. The coffeepot still held a couple of inches of cold coffee. He eyed the coffee,
thinking it would probably taste like shit, but what the hell. Shoving away from the table, he grabbed his morning coffee cup from the dishwasher—why mess up another one—and filled it, then put it in the microwave and set the timer for two minutes.

While it heated, he scowled at the floor. Why was he even thinking what he was thinking? Angie had made it clear she thought it was his fault that she had to sell, and that she hated his guts because of it. She’d hate him even more now that he’d made the offer on her property, because she’d think he was taking advantage of her situation. The last thing she’d want was him tagging along on a job to make sure she was safe, even if he had the time or the inclination, which he didn’t. Mostly. That last word sneaked into his brain and made his scowl deeper.

The microwave dinged. He opened the door and stuck his finger in the coffee to see if the brew was hot enough, then quickly jerked it out. Shit, yeah. He dumped in enough sugar to disguise the crappy taste, stirred, then leaned back against the counter and took a sip. Not bad. Not bad at all. Why couldn’t he just enjoy a cup of coffee and the fact that business was good? For the most part,
life
was good. He didn’t need to take on Angie’s problems.

Why did he let her get under his skin this way? In all his thirty-seven years, he’d never met another woman as annoying as she was. She was stubborn as an old goat, and she’d made it abundantly clear that she wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire. No ass in the world, no matter how fine, was worth the kind of aggravation she’d caused him. Like it or not, though, she was definitely under his skin, lodged there like a tick.

What was wrong with him? In a matter of moments he’d mentally compared her to both an old goat and a tick, and yet here he was, still stewing over Harlan’s words and, damn it all, still worrying about a woman who wouldn’t give him the time of day.

If Harlan had expressed the same concerns about anyone else in town, Dare wouldn’t have given them a second thought. Angie was an adult. She’d be armed. Surely she vetted her clients before
taking them on. She knew the territory as well as … no, better than anyone else, except him. She had such a pissy attitude, he should be more concerned about her clients’ safety than he was about hers.

Dare drank his coffee, savoring each sip. His rancor eased some, as he glanced at the pile of paperwork on the table. He had ten days off, ten days of freedom. His winter preparations would do, for now. There was maintenance to be done, but nothing pressing. The paperwork wasn’t going anywhere. And forget tailing Angie Powell as if she was a helpless female in need of a fucking white knight.

He was going to go fishing, damn it. He was going up on the mountain on his own for some much needed peace and quiet, a little down time. And if that down time put him in Angie’s vicinity, maybe even in her path, well, that was just a coincidence.

Yeah, right. He’d just keep telling himself that. And he’d damn sure tell Angie, if he was unlucky enough that she saw him.

Once he’d made up his mind, Dare packed with the speed and precision of a man who’d done the same thing a thousand times. In his backpack he arranged strips of jerky, power bars, a small first-aid kit, some cans of bear spray, bottles of water, aspirin—because he might run into Angie and she was sure to give him a headache—and an extra flannel shirt. His satellite phone, charged and ready, went into the pack. There were more supplies up at the camp, but he never headed in empty-handed.

The fishing gear was another matter. Dare hadn’t been fishing on his own in months, so he took some time to inspect the fly rod, put on new line. Most of his clients came in to hunt, but he’d taken out the occasional fishing party. He never fished when he was with clients, though; if he intended to fish he preferred to go on his own, to enjoy the peace and quiet.

If his fishing clients knew what they were doing, he enjoyed the trips. If they were novices, he’d rather eat ground glass. They talked, they splashed, they tangled themselves in the line, caught
themselves on the hooks. Teaching a beginner to fly-fish was a huge pain in the ass. He’d started referring callers to a fishing guide in the next county over, because business was good enough that he didn’t have to fuck with it if he didn’t want to.

Dare thought about packing waders, but given the cooling weather and dropping temps of the water he decided against it. He’d cast from the bank.

As he sorted through the flies, he wondered if Angie could fish, and imagined maybe sending the beginners her way. It was a perversely satisfying thought.

A few times in his career as a guide, clients had come in with their wives. One nightmarish job had included two teenage daughters. He’d rather be shot than do that again. But a woman … how many wives would be more comfortable with another female around? Angie probably wouldn’t be as annoyed by the constant chatter of a young woman as he was. He’d barked at that one girl when she’d squealed because she saw a deer, and then she’d cried. The trip had gone downhill from there. It wasn’t like having women around was the norm, but still … it was worth some thought. Why hadn’t Angie attempted to specialize in couples, families? Why hadn’t she used her gender to her advantage? Instead she’d tried to step into her father’s shoes and continue on as he had, as if nothing had changed, when in fact everything had changed.

It wasn’t the best time of year for fly-fishing. Weather and water conditions were changing, but the trout weren’t in their winter lies just yet. He might have good luck in a slow current, maybe target some pre-spawn browns. A big pan of trout would taste a helluva lot better than a power bar and jerky.

And if he happened to coincidentally keep an eye on Angie at the same time, well, keeping her safe would make one part of him very happy. His brain knew better, but his dick hadn’t given up hope. Not just yet, anyway. This trip might be just what he needed to convince his little brain that it had had a lucky escape.

Chad Krugman waited in the terminal at the Butte airport as the SkyWest flight carrying Mitchell Davis taxied closer. There were only a few commercial flights a day coming in and out of Butte, most of the traffic was general aviation, but for all that the flight times were decent. Davis was an experienced hunter, so he wasn’t expecting to be able to fly first class in a 747 right up to the hunting area. Out-of-the-way was pretty much the norm for good hunting.

Out-of-the-way was perfect for his plans. In fact, the more remote the area their guide, Angie Powell, took them to, the better. He’d made a point of asking her about the general area, keeping the tone of his e-mails casual, but there was nothing casual about his interest. Once he’d known where they were going to be hunting, at least within about ten square miles, he’d studied maps, downloaded images from Google Maps, and taped them together to give him a better idea of topographical features and possible landmarks. The images weren’t as close up and detailed as he’d
have liked, but they did give him a very good idea of the terrain and what he would have to do to execute his plan.

He’d known this day would be coming, had known it from the moment he’d begun skimming cash from the money-laundering service he provided for Mitchell Davis. No, even before that, because what he’d done had been carefully thought out, and all possibilities considered, before he’d ever taken that first step. With that in mind, he’d set a silent alarm on the accounts and computer files, an automatic notice if anyone tried to access certain files and information. That was his tripwire, and he was so good at what he did he’d even anticipated how long it would take Davis to become suspicious, and timed this trip accordingly.

Chad couldn’t help feeling a little smug. As the time neared for the hunting trip he’d begun to wonder if he’d overestimated Davis, the vicious bastard, but then,
bang!
—just yesterday his silent tripwire had sent out the alarm. The precision of the timing made him almost giddy with triumph. Was he accurate, or what?

For the past year he’d been training for this, making preparations, studying and learning and getting the timing down just right. Maybe he was too careful in making certain nothing he did would signal Davis that he himself had been alerted, but he’d bypassed certain toys and tools that might, if Davis was enterprising enough to search his belongings, have made him wary because they weren’t something Chad would ordinarily have possessed—at least, not as far as Davis and everyone else knew. That meant no sophisticated GPS, no satellite maps, no passport. His passport was safe in a post office box here in Butte, easy to retrieve when he needed it. He’d have bought an airline ticket in advance, but he wasn’t certain exactly which day he’d need it, so that was something he’d have to do at the last minute. No big deal.

Chad enjoyed the disconnect between the way people perceived him and how he really was. No one, literally no one, had any idea what he was capable of, but then he’d spent almost his entire life carefully building his persona, crafting his mask, as if
he’d known from childhood that one day his life would depend on it. He’d been blessed—or cursed, depending on how you looked at it—with ordinary features, and he’d worked hard to make himself even more ordinary. He kept himself in fairly good shape, something no one would ever guess to look at him, because he deliberately dressed in clothes that never quite fit properly, that made him look shorter and heavier, and as dweebish as possible. Who would ever be wary or suspicious of a slightly plump Woody Allen? No one. And so he’d gone about his life all but invisible, and all the while he’d been amassing a fortune right under their noses.

It was second nature to him now; he didn’t even have to think about stuttering, or the slightly off-balance way he’d taught himself to walk, or the fumbling way he handled everything from a water glass to a cell phone. God, the CIA could take lessons from him in undercover guises.

Mitchell Davis approached the baggage claim area, pulling a rolling duffel behind him and carrying a computer bag in his other hand. Chad stumbled to his feet, dropping his cell phone and sending it skittering across the floor. Clumsily he lurched for it, and when he straightened his face was red from being bent over. He didn’t let himself even glance at the computer bag, though it was a solid confirmation, if he’d needed one, that Davis was on his electronic trail. He felt a little bit of a thrill, because Mitchell Davis would have him killed without a second’s hesitation if he could find what he was looking for, but at the same time Chad was contemptuous of Davis, not only for bringing the laptop but evidently not being aware enough of where they were going to realize that not only would there not be wifi everywhere, there wouldn’t even be cellular service.