Calm down. You’re not in Kansas anymore. Or Iraq. Mitch steadied the kid before pulling out his cell. “I’m calling you a taxi.”
“We’re fiiinnne.”
And he was a horse’s ass. Mitch stowed his phone and held out a couple of twenties. “I’m serious. You need to take a cab.”
The kid’s companion hiccupped. “We got enough.”
“Don’t drive. You hear?” When they nodded, Mitch stepped away and waited while Hal closed the hatch.
His brother pulled on a nondescript jacket. “What were you doing?”
“They looked in need.”
“You plan on rescuing every drunk you meet?”
“You really want an answer?” Mitch flicked sweat from his temple.
“I can do without one.” His usually too-serious brother cracked a smile.
They navigated around the tourists in front of an Italian grocery, then passed through the cayenne-scented steam coming from a bar serving seafood. Hal glanced at Mitch, grim lines grooving his forehead. “You sick? You’ve been sweating like a pig.”
Was his brother looking to disqualify him before he could even get started? No, not Hal. They were closest in age and had been great buddies until the accident. Mitch shrugged. “I’m okay.”
The army docs told him he’d probably have post-trauma episodes for years. Mitch had them mostly under control, the overreaction tonight his first in months. “I’m not going to let you down, Bro.”
Nor Big Easy Bounty Hunters.
Every takedown counted. If he and Hal failed to return this fugitive to jail before their recovery window closed, his brothers’ fledging firm would get a black eye. Mitch couldn’t afford for that to happen.
“My buddies in the marines say everyone who serves in the Middle East comes home with baggage,” Hal said, continuing to be a know-it-all.
“I’m on edge is all.” Mitch had been home nearly three months. Hal had been busy, sure, but they hadn’t talked about Mitch’s duty tours. A nervous twitching in his gut flared again. “This is my first time.”
“Understood.” Hal glanced at him. “I saw your medals.”
Their elderly aunt had insisted on examining them, but Mitch would just as soon have left them in the box where they belonged. “All they mean is that I can hit a target from anywhere in or out of range, and I know how to score.”
“One of them has a purple ribbon.” Hal raised his brows. “You could have told us you’d been wounded.”
“We’ve all got battle scars, but yeah.” Mitch ran a hand over his short hair. His throat clogged. He swallowed but the pain only strengthened. “That was a rough op.”
“At least you got out alive.” Hal dropped to tie a shoe beneath one of the old-style lanterns dotting the Quarter. “Remember, your skip is going to be violent. He knows he’s hiding.”
“That figures.” His older brother took his mentoring job seriously, but he didn’t need to worry. Mitch had passed the bounty hunter course and planned to make his first arrest by the book.
His brother turned at the next corner, and they entered the French Quarter’s quiet residential streets.
Cold mist pushed at their backs and swirled past. Visibility would be plenty worse soon. Mitch patted his pockets, making sure he’d remembered his flashlight. “Hope we’re done before this stuff gets worse.”
“We’ll be in and out in ten minutes, tops.” Hal slicked a hand over his dark hair and waited for a car to pass before crossing the street.
Ten minutes would be the best-case scenario, but Hal wouldn’t have said that if he didn’t have confidence Mitch could perform. The knots tying his gut finally came undone.
Shutters covered the windows of the houses bellied up to the sidewalk. The sounds of traffic on the main arterial road faded. Hal stopped a few feet from the Creole cottage where they’d earlier located Mitch’s fugitive.
A gate closed off the alley that led to a courtyard and gave street access to tenants living in the rear. A small garden filled the wedge of visible lighted patio. No one who could be collateral damage appeared to be around, and Mitch gave his brother a thumbs-up.
“There’re lights behind the front shutters,” his brother whispered. “He’s inside.”
Supposedly, his bail skip holed up with a girlfriend. Mitch braced a hand on the Victorian-style porch of the neighbor’s house. “What if the woman is here?”
“I’ll keep her out of the way.” Hal positioned himself at the bottom of the cottage steps. “You ready?”
Mitch unzipped his jacket to reveal the T-shirt identifying him as a bail recovery agent and went through his mission prep like a batter at the plate. A fist press against his upper lip. A shake to loosen his hands. He plastered his back against the front of the house and nodded.
Hal knocked.
Seconds passed. The gleam of reflected light on the knob disappeared as the door opened. Running shoes appeared on the threshold. Mitch tensed.
“Gas company.” His brother flashed an old security badge. “We were informed of a problem at this address.”
“Who is it?” A woman’s warm alto voice called from inside. Mitch clenched his jaw. He’d have to watch out for her.
“Wait a minute.” The door closed.
Adrenaline ebbed. Mitch whispered, “We got some wrong intel?”
Hal shrugged and leaned forward to call through the door. “Utilities. I’m here to turn the gas back on.”
The knob clicked and a sliver of light reappeared. “You have the wrong apartment,” the male at the door said. “Check the mailboxes.”
“Wait.” Hal stowed the ID. “What’s your name?”
Mitch held his breath. They needed to confirm their fugitive’s identity before they entered.
“My name?” The speaker paused, and Hal nodded. “Les Hurley. Why?”
Hal stepped down and Mitch vaulted the steps. The door under his hand banged against the inside wall. Hurley staggered back before Mitch even touched him. A quick glance around the room revealed a couch against one wall. An overstuffed armchair. A cluttered coffee table. Colored beads hanging in the doorway to a back room.
A woman’s pretty face flashed in his peripheral vision before disappearing. Hurley tripped over the coffee table, tumbled onto the couch.
The front door banged shut behind him. “You’re under arrest, Lester M. Hurley.” Hal’s voice couldn’t have been calmer. “Cooperate and you won’t get hurt.”