Hunt and Prey (Kelsey's Burden Series Book 8) Kaylie Hunter (books on motivation txt) 📖

his driver Colby Brown always traveled with us, so I had his name run. He had a criminal record. Assault. Robbery. Extortion. I should’ve broken things off then, but by then I was scared. I had to find out who he was.”

“What did you do?” I asked, not sure if I wanted to hear the answer.

“I planted a recorder in the den where he took his private calls. And the next day when I listened to the one-sided conversation, I knew I had to run.”

“What was the conversation about?”

“It was one sided, so it was just fractured pieces to a puzzle. Young girls. Prostitutes, I think. A dentist office. Cuba. Wire transfer. Miami.”

Baker leaned his head back on the couch cushion and pinched the bridge of his nose. “None of that sounds good.”

“Anything else?”

She thought for a moment, staring at the coffee table as she did. “Yeah, something. But I couldn’t make sense of it. Something about hoping Mickey doesn’t figure it out.”

“Shit,” Baker said as he stood. “We need to get her out of town.”

The towel of ice I’d been holding against my knee started dripping so I walked to the kitchen and tossed the towel into the sink. “Stay here,” I said to Evie when I returned. “Let me poke around.”

“It’s not safe to keep her in Miami,” Baker argued. “Mickey owns this town.”

“Mickey doesn’t own me. And I’m not scared of him.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard you say. Kelsey’s even smart enough to keep him at a certain distance.”

“Whether Mickey’s involved or not, it’s not safe to move Evie in a rush. If we need to get her out of town, arrangements need to be made. That takes time. For now, the three of us and Garth are the only ones who know about this place, so she’s safe. Just give me a few days.”

I walked over to my purse and dug out my phone. Returning to the living room, I showed Evie the still image Pimples had sent me of the guy renting a car. “Recognize him?”

Evie studied the picture. “I can’t see the guy’s face, but he doesn’t seem familiar. Who is he?”

“He’s the guy who attacked me earlier, but it’s likely he’s related to another case. I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t your ex.”

“It’s not Xander or his driver Colby. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t someone Xander hired. I only know Colby, but Xander was constantly on the phone ordering people around.”

“Do you still have the voice recording?”

“Sort of.” She looked guiltily at Baker. “I hid the mini recorder behind the brandy glasses at the bar. Figured it was safer there than in my apartment.”

“I have a safe in my office, you know,” Baker said, rolling his eyes.

“I’ll head to the bar and make a copy. I’ll move the original to my office.” I walked toward the door and gathered my purse. “Don’t go anywhere. If you need something, call Baker or Garth.”

“Umm…” she said, looking between Baker and me. “I sort of need some feminine products.”

“I’m not buying tampons,” Baker said matter-of-factly. “No way. Not happening.”

I raised an eyebrow at Baker. “How about I go buy the tampons and you go talk to Benny The Barber?”

His head swiveled my way. “Are you insane?”

“Which is it? Tampons or Benny? I can’t do everything.”

He grumbled a few curse words under his breath. “I’ll buy the damn tampons!”

Chapter Fourteen

CHARLIE

Sunday, 9:18 p.m.

After stopping at The Outer Layer to copy and listen to Evie’s audio file, I hid the original recorder in the safe in my office. I grabbed a pair of jeans and a baby-blue t-shirt from the closet, and carried them into my private bathroom to shower for the fourth time today.

Ten minutes later, I left feeling more myself, my bruises coated under several layers of make-up, my hair pulled into a loose pony-tail, and comfortable running shoes laced to my feet. I’d left the bloodstained linen pants and ballet shoes lying on the floor, imagining Baker’s cleaning person flipping out the next time he sent someone in to clean. Maybe he’d learn his lesson. Then again, it was a sex club. Maybe the person cleaning wouldn’t even notice.

I drove south to Benny’s barbershop. Benny The Barber was well known for his skills. Not hair cutting skills, though I’d heard he was a decent barber, but his skills as a hitman were well known to law enforcement and criminals alike. Long range shots used to be his specialty, but word on the street was his eyesight wasn’t what it used to be. Benny wasn’t the type to take early retirement though. I was confident he’d been keeping busy with point-and-shoot, knifings, and the make-it-look-like-an-accident jobs.

Nailing Benny’s ass and sending him to prison would make a lot of people happy, including me. But Benny was skilled enough that, even though everyone knew he was a hitman, the police couldn’t pin a single crime on him. As far as the good guys could tell, Benny didn’t take trophies. He didn’t leave calling cards. He changed his MO regularly. He didn’t leave witnesses. He didn’t leave trace evidence—ever. And he’d been in the game for at least forty years.

It took a certain personality to be able to do that type of work. The type of personality that was often described using labels such as sociopath, anti-social personality disorder, or psychotic. And for that reason, I took a few extra minutes in my car, breathing in and out, to settle my pulse before I climbed out and walked toward the barbershop’s front entrance.

I wasn’t surprised to find the lights on in the barbershop, nor the doors unlocked. Benny kept odd hours, even on Sundays. I was surprised to be greeted just inside the door by Mickey McNabe’s right-