Die Cocktail-Fibel. Dan Jones
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the two men who stood on the porch. Both had short, military-style haircuts, and both were dressed in suits and ties. Other than the fact that one was just a bit taller, and one had dark hair and the other one was sandy-haired, they could have been cookie-cutter look-alikes.
Whoever they were, Leah had an uneasy feeling that they weren’t there for a social call. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure that Hunter was out of sight, she walked to the front door. Once she was at the door, she called out, “Who is it?”
“FBI, ma’am,” one of the men answered. “Open up. We’ve got a search warrant.”
Stay calm…don’t panic. “Just a second, please.” Leah slipped the slide bolt of the chain lock into the doorplate, then opened the door as wide as the chain allowed.
“I’d like to see some ID,” she said. “And the warrant,” she added.
The taller, dark-haired agent flipped open a badge and held it up to the narrow opening of the door.
The badge looked authentic enough, but of course she’d never had reason to see an FBI badge, so there was no way for her to know if it was real or fake. Then he slipped a paper through the opening.
Leah glanced over the paper, and once she saw that it was a warrant to search the premises and she recognized the name of the local judge who had signed it, she decided that the warrant and the agents had to be authentic.
“Ma’am, I’m Agent Lance Martin, and this is Agent Ray Harris.” He motioned toward the sandy-haired man. “Open the door. We need to talk to you.”
“About what? And why do you need to search my home?”
“This is about Hunter Davis,” he said.
The uneasy feeling she’d had a few minutes earlier grew. Leah took a steadying breath as she fought to keep her panic felt from showing on her face.
For several moments she simply stared at the man, trying to buy time. Where was Hunter? she wondered, fighting the temptation to look over her shoulder. Even more important, was he within earshot? If the FBI was there looking for him, he’d be caught for sure. Then another thought suddenly occurred to her. The FBI would also know that she was married to him. What if they said her full name?
“Why are you looking for Hunter?” she demanded.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that with you.”
“Then just go away,” she told him. “Hunter is dead.”
“Afraid we can’t do that, ma’am. We have good reason to believe that he’s alive, and that you know he’s alive. We also have reason to believe that he’s here in this house. One way or—”
“How do you know that?” she retorted. “Just what makes you think he’s here?”
“We have our sources, ma’am. Now open up. We don’t have a lot of time, and one way or another, we’re coming in. It’s up to you whether we do it peaceably or by force. If you don’t let us in, we can and will break down the door.”
Leah’s heart pumped double time beneath her breasts. She was between a rock and a hard place and had no choice. As she unlatched the chain, she silently cursed her trembling fingers. Glaring at first one man, then the other one, she opened the door.
“This won’t take long, ma’am,” the agent named Ray Harris told her as he and the other agent pushed past her. When both men whipped out guns from the holsters beneath their jackets, a hard fist of terror lodged in Leah’s stomach.
Ray turned and headed for the hallway. “I’ll check back here,” he told the other agent, “while you check through there.” With his head, he motioned toward the door on the opposite side of the room.
Leah stood frozen, her heart racing, as the dark-haired agent disappeared through the doorway and the sandy-haired agent crept toward the hall. Suddenly, she couldn’t breathe. Where was Hunter? Surely he’d overheard what the agents had said, and surely he’d had sense enough to escape through the back door.
The second Ray Harris turned the corner into the hallway, Hunter jumped him, and Leah screamed.
Chapter 4
As Leah’s scream echoed in the house, Hunter grabbed the agent around the neck in a chokehold and latched on to the gun.
Across the room, the dark-haired agent came charging back into the room just as his partner elbowed Hunter in the gut. Hunter grunted from the blow but held on to the gun and tightened his grip around the other man’s neck.
Before the dark-haired agent got halfway across the room, quick as lightning, Hunter twisted the gun, pried it loose from the agent’s hand and rammed it against the man’s temple.
Hunter’s captive stiffened then went still, and the dark-haired agent skidded to a halt. Using his captive as a shield, Hunter forced him into the parlor.
“Easy now,” Hunter told the dark-haired agent, his voice deceptively soft but edged with steel. “Just take it easy and no one will get hurt. Put your gun down and kick it over here. And no funny business.”
Leah’s heart pounded. Would the agent give up his gun?
“We’re not here to hurt you,” the agent told Hunter. Then he knelt down and placed the gun on the floor. “We’re here to protect you.” He straightened, then kicked the gun toward Hunter.
The sound of metal skidding against wood grated loudly in Leah’s ears as the gun slid across the floor then stopped just to the right of Hunter’s feet. Using the heel of his foot, Hunter kicked the gun back behind him into the hallway.
All Leah could do was stand frozen and watch. Was Hunter running a bluff on the agents or had he lied to her about being a cop, about being unable to fire a weapon? Surely if he was a cop the FBI would know about his medical leave and the reasons behind it. But then, maybe they didn’t. Maybe such things came under patient-doctor confidentiality. After all, the agent did give up his weapon.
“Down on your knees,” Hunter ordered. “Hands behind your head.” When the dark-haired agent dropped to his knees and raised his hands, Hunter loosened his hold on the captive agent and shoved him in the direction of the one on his knees. “You, too,” he snarled. “Down. Hands behind your head.”
The agent stumbled but caught himself, and with a backward glare at Hunter, he joined his partner on the floor.
The minute the agent was down, Hunter yelled, “Answers! I want some damn answers. And I want them now! You! Martin!” He waved the gun at the dark-haired man. “Start talking.”
“Easy does it, Hunter,” the agent said. “Like I said, we’re not here to hurt you. We’re only here to take you into protective custody. All I can tell you is that you’re a material witness to a murder committed in Orlando.”
“Yeah, right!” Hunter snarled. “And I’ve got some ocean-front property in Arizona for sale.”
“It’s true,” the sandy-haired agent told him.
“Well, the joke’s on you,” Hunter sneered. “The only thing I remember about Orlando is being held prisoner in that damn hospital. I didn’t even know my own name until this morning. Seems I have this little problem called amnesia.”
“We know that,” the dark-haired agent said evenly. “It’s because of the amnesia that we can’t tell you anything else. You have to remember it on your own, without any prompting or help or else your testimony won’t hold water.”
Breathing hard, Hunter glared first at one man and then the other. Though he didn’t trust either agent as far as he could throw them, their body language told him they were telling the truth.
Body language? Now, where in the hell had that come from? More memory returning or instincts and training? Cop instincts and training? Leah had said he was a cop. No time to think about it