And now, the truck was here, of all places, parked at The Loggerhead.
Could they be my competition? A new hit team tracing Shea McQueen’s whereabouts same as me?
Hiding in Viggo’s bathroom, he hadn’t heard the whole conversation between the woman and the old giant, but her tone had rung sad at times.
Could she be related to Shea?
The name McQueen had been itching his brain ever since he’d found the framed news clipping. At first, he’d chalked the familiarity to the famous actor, Steve McQueen—
Wait—crap—
Tyler snapped from his thoughts to jerk his steering wheel left and make a u-turn at the end of the cul-de-sac. He’d nearly taken out a mailbox.
Jeeze, Tyler, pay attention.
He pulled to the side of the one-way street beside a tree-heavy empty lot and put the car in park.
McQueen.
I remember now.
There’d been a contract on a McQueen years ago. A woman with a strange first name he couldn’t recall. He’d put a little time into tracking her while freelancing, working toward establishing his reputation. What he thought would be an easy gig wasn’t. He’d discovered tracking wasn’t his thing. He hooked up with Brett to get more steady work. No hunting. Just killing.
Could that McQueen still be alive? Could this be her?
Tyler smiled to himself.
This could end up being a two-fer.
Tyler eyed the empty lot beside the hotel.
Hm.
He got out of the car to scope what vantage point existed in the postage stamp-sized forest beside the hotel. The underbrush grabbed at his clothing.
I hate nature.
Tyler silently thanked Minneapolis for being the sort of hellhole to inspire him to wear jeans. Without them, he would have passed out from lack of blood before he got halfway into the forest.
The lot ended at a shallow beach, flanking a slow-moving river. Large Tuscan-style mansions lined the opposite bank. To the left, the hotel’s pier jutted into the water.
He glanced up river.
The smart way to show up might be by kayak.
He ducked back into the forest, thoughts lost in his planning.
“Hey there.”
Tyler’s head jerked up. A bleach-blond man with a matching goatee stood between him and his vehicle, standing with hands on hips.
“Hey,” said Tyler, a smile leaping to his lips.
Shit.
“This is private property,” said the man.
“Is it?” Tyler looked around as if he were confused. “I’m sorry, man. I’ve been looking for a lot like this and I thought maybe there was a for sale sign on the riverside.”
Good one. Nice.
The man shook his head. “Nope. Not for sale. Property of The Loggerhead.” Blondie motioned to the hotel.
“Oh, gotcha. No problem, man.”
“Everything okay, William?”
A woman dressed in housekeeping togs appeared at the boundary between the hotel and the forest.
Tyler’s brow knit, even as his smile remained steady.
What’s up with this place? Two staff on my ass that fast?
“We’re all good,” said the blond man, holding up a hand.
“I was just leaving,” added Tyler, tromping toward his car.
His cheeks ached from smiling.
&&&
Chapter Forty-Three
“She shot at us. Shee fell and hit her head.” Mason screamed his message into Shee’s phone. He didn’t dare slow the boat, but making himself heard over the engine was like trying to have a conversation in a wind tunnel. “She might need stiches.”
Feeling he’d relayed the necessary information, Mason hung up, his nerves still jangling. When Shee hit the water—
There’d been a time he could have scooped her in his arms and swum her back to the hotel. When she fell, he’d suffered a split second of piercing doubt, questioning if he could haul her back into the boat.
He’d never second guessed himself in a moment of crisis before.
He didn’t like it.
He’d pulled her out of the water. Soon, he’d have to get her out of the boat. New prosthetics and pier ladders weren’t a marriage made in heaven.
He glanced down at Shee. She sat on the deck, her hand gripping the bench seating like he’d instructed her to do. Her eyes were open, she seemed okay, but he didn’t trust her to climb the ladder to the pier on her own. She’d been woozy when he plucked her from the sea—seemed more interested in talking to sea turtles than him. The white fishing rag in her hand had turned pink with a mixture of blood and seawater.
Roaring toward The Loggerhead’s dock, Mason spotted Angelina, Bracco and a dark-haired, spectacled man he didn’t recognize, waiting.
His shoulders relaxed a notch.
The cavalry has gathered.
He dropped speed and slid the Whaler into its spot, sidling up to the ladder.
“Is she okay?” asked Angelina.
Mason leaned down and hefted Shee in his arms, taking an extra moment to be sure his leg didn’t betray him.
“Put me down. I can walk,” protested Shee.
She seemed a little more like herself now.
First class pain in the ass.
“Just let us help you,” he mumbled, pushing her onto the ladder. She gripped the rungs and, crouching, Bracco grabbed her wrists to lift her to the pier.
“I can climb—”
She couldn’t finish her sentence before Bracco collected her into his arms and carried her to the grass. The stranger followed and dropped to his knee beside her as Bracco lowered her to the ground.
“Put me down,” she
