Morgan's Hunter by Cate Beauman

forces background. He’s decorated. Apparently he’s an expert tracker and quite handy with a gun. The kid’s from up north of here. He’s a couple years removed from college and clean as a whistle.”
    Hunter glanced at Darren. “You know what they say about whistles. They’re not that clean.”
    “Well, according to the law and anything else I could find, he’s your average boy next door.”
    Hunter shook his head. “Something feels off. Not quite right. I don’t know what it is yet, but I got a bad vibe. I want to take these pictures with me and the police reports, look them over again. How did you get this stuff?”
    Darren smiled. His gray beady eyes almost disappeared in the folds of his fleshy face. “Trade secrets, my friend, trade secrets.”
    Hunter opened his mouth to speak, but closed it as he watched Morgan exit the bookstore, cross the street, and sit on the bench by the large shade tree. She peeled a banana, took a bite, opened her book. A light breeze played with her silky brown locks. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her.
    “That your assignment?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Jesus, look at her.”
    Hunter narrowed his eyes at the blatant lust in his colleague’s. “Should we get you another napkin to wipe the drool from your chin?”
    Darren’s gaze darted to Hunter’s. “Well, well, well.”
    “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
    Darren smiled. “Not a thing.” He took a last bite of pie, stood. “I should probably head out. Don’t want to miss my flight. I’ll see you back in L.A., Phillips.”

    Morgan glanced up as someone approached.
    With a file folder in hand, Hunter walked toward her. She studied his smooth, confident strides and begrudgingly admitted he was simply spectacular. A lock of blond hair fell loose against his forehead before he swiped it back. His black t-shirt fit over his muscled torso like a second skin. Her gaze wandered down, noting the small grass stain on the knee of his jeans from where he’d tackled her like a damn linebacker.
    Surges of pleasure careened through her system as she thought of his firm mouth on hers, of his bold tongue diving deep and tangling with hers. Blowing out a quiet breath, she stared down at her book, desperately trying to rein in her revving hormones.
    Hunter stopped in front of her. “I’m ready whenever you are.”
    She dog-eared her page and hoped she appeared unaffected as she stood. “Let’s go then. I have a lot of work to do.”
    They walked side-by-side until they reached the car. Hunter frowned, placed the folder on the trunk, bent down to examine one of the tires. “Looks like the air’s getting a little low. We’ll have to put some in when we stop for gas.” He moved along to the next tire, pushing against the rubber with his thumbs.
    “Let’s make it fast. I want to get back to the station. I figure we can be in backcountry by the end of the week if I get all of my paperwork finished in the next day or two and submitted to the Bureau. The red tape of working between dual agencies is unbelievable.” As she spoke, she picked up the folder, opened it. “I’m eager to…”
    She caught sight of the photograph of Shelly, dropped the folder as if it scalded her. Pictures scattered on the pavement. Morgan stared in horror, stunned, unable to look away from the gruesome images of her friends in death.
    Shelly’s eyes were open and staring. A single drop of blood had run from her forehead into her hair. She couldn’t tell if Ian’s or Tom’s eyes were opened or closed. The exit wounds at the top of their heads had left a mess.
    Some of the pictures were close-ups; others had all three bodies lined up, capturing the entire crime scene. Shelly had fallen straight back from the lethal blast of the bullet. Her head bent unnaturally, dangling over her pack. Her long blond hair lay matted with blood and dirt in the pine needles on the ground.
    Ian and Tom lay face down in dark red pools of their own dried blood and