Morgan's Hunter (3 page)

“I can get behind that.” Dave knuckle bumped Ian, then Jim.

Morgan rolled her eyes, smiled. “Does anyone object to Ian’s oh-so professional business proposal?” She glanced around at shaking heads. “Okay, everyone, go home and change. We’ll meet at Rave in an hour.”

Flashes of bright light pulsed throughout the dimly lit club in time to the heavy bass of the song currently playing. Pretty mixed drinks were delivered to the team’s table.

“Oh good, let’s do a toast,” Morgan yelled over the deafening music. “To three of the best damn years of our lives. We’re going to miss you like crazy, Shell.” They clinked glasses, and Morgan sipped the creamy coconut of her pina colada before enveloping Shelly in a huge hug.

Shelly’s eyes watered. “Oh, Morgan, you’re going to make me cry.”

“No crying tonight. We’re here for fun. Let’s dance.” Everyone in the group jumped up except for one. Morgan grabbed Tom’s hand. “Come on, Tom.”

Brown eyes magnified by the strength of his prescription lenses stared into hers as he tightened the knot in his bright orange tie. “I don’t dance, Morgan. I strictly came because this is Shelly’s last assignment.” He shoved at his glasses for the umpteenth time and her heart melted. She had a soft spot for Tom—always had. He exemplified the classic geek. She couldn’t help but adore him.

“Well, I guess we better have some fun then.” Morgan pulled him into the mob on the dance floor. “Move those hips, Tom.” She grinned as his gangly body moved in tight, jerky circles. “The night’s still young. You’ll get there.”

Ian, known for his inner party animal, didn’t have any trouble getting into the spirit of things. He spun Morgan away. “I couldn’t bear to witness that a moment longer. I was embarrassed for you. Is he hula hooping or dancing?”

Morgan laughed, giving Ian’s broad shoulder a solid smack. “Stop. He’s trying his best.”

He pulled her closer. “I watched the men around here staring at the hot lady in the little red dress dancing with the nerd. You could tell they wondered how the hell that happened.”

Morgan smacked him harder; he grinned.

“I’m playing. You know I think the guy’s brilliant. He just can’t dance.” Ian’s blue eyes darted in Tom’s direction and he winced. “
Really
can’t
dance.” He met Morgan’s gaze, took her hand, tugging her petite body to his and away in a quick spin. When he pulled her back, he continued. “So, I can’t believe this is it—the end of the six musketeers. It’s been a hell of a run.” He bopped her hip, smiling, accentuating his handsome face.

“Yeah,” she said on a wistful breath. “I’m going to miss you guys this month. It’ll be weird having everyone separated.” She spun away and back again. “You know, I’m not sure I’m happy with the way our teams were picked. I think I might change the groups around. I should take Yellowstone. And it would be better—”

“Its fine,” Ian interrupted. “Everyone is in agreement, so let it go. Besides, how can I talk Shelly into staying if you mess everything up?” He wiggled his eyebrows, smiled. “L.A.’s got nothing on the five of us.”

“You’ve been after her for three years. Maybe you’ll finally get lucky—although I wouldn’t count on it.” She gave his cheek a gentle pat, danced away to help poor, awkward Tom.

An hour later, Morgan sipped her water as Tom removed his ugly tie, swinging the silk fabric like a lasso.

“Good for you, Tommy Boy. See, Morgan, I told you he’d loosen up. He just needed a little liquid courage,” said Dave.

“Yes, you did. Hopefully, you and your brother will be driving him home.” Morgan frowned. “Where is Jim anyway?” She scanned the crowd until she stopped on the well-muscled man surrounded by several women. Rolling her eyes, she shook her head. “Your brother’s making time with a pack of ladies.”

“Typical.” Grinning, Dave took her hand. “Let’s join Tommy Boy before he hurts himself.”

Jim finally joined the party on the floor. They all teased him about his pocketful of phone numbers. Six good friends laughed and danced into the early hours of the morning, enjoying their final night together as a group.

Morgan walked into her hotel room, filthy, exhausted, and more than glad her team of three had come back for their bi-weekly supply run. She hit the lights, dropped her heavy pack, looked around. The small, stuffy space was far from luxurious with its burnt orange bedspread, matching curtains and décor from the seventies, but it was clean, and most importantly, it had a mattress and shower.

She sat on the bed, sighed. Pulling off her hiking boots, she closed her eyes, relishing the feel of something other than cold, hard ground beneath her ass. It was tempting to lie back against the soft, ugly bedding and let sleep pull her under, but she had too much to do.

Her father would be expecting her to check in and fax her initial reports for the Environmental Protection Agency, even though she had little to share. They hadn’t found anything yet. Hopefully the Yellowstone crew had stumbled into more luck than she, Dave, and Jim.

But faxes would have to wait—her date with hot water and soap came first. Morgan stood and walked to the bathroom, casting a wistful glance over her shoulder. One more hour of work, she promised herself, and she’d be snuggled under the covers of her temporary bed.

Facing the vanity-style mirror, Morgan grimaced at her dimly lit reflection. “Yikes. You’ve seen better days, Taylor.” She flicked on the light. “Definitely worse than I thought.”

She pulled the elastic from her messy ponytail, chuckled. Claude was going to freak when she stepped into his spa fourteen days from now—he always did after she returned from an assignment.

The city’s top stylist would cluck his tongue and scold her in fluent French while he pulled her to a salon chair as if her life hung in the balance. A flute of champagne would be thrust into her hand as a team of hair and skincare specialists descended on her like doctors and nurses responding to a ‘stat’ call.

While a cosmetologist brushed green goop over her face and a stylist fussed and cooed over her neglected mane, Claude would continue, outraged. “Beautiful skin should be treasured, no?” or “How can Morgan Taylor of
the
D.C. Taylors allow herself to fall apart like this every time she leaves town? Disgraceful!” And let’s not forget: “What would your
grandmother
, the former
senator
, think if she happened to pass you on the street—
like this
—looking as though you just crawled out of the gutter? Scandalous!”

Morgan shook her head, rolling her eyes, and brushed a hand through dull hair, admitting a good douse of Claude’s special hydrating treatment couldn’t hurt. Her silky brown locks hid among the tangled mess hanging at her shoulders—somewhere.

Morgan swiped at the purple smudges under her dark green eyes, noted her broken fingernails, shrugged. Vanity and the wilderness just didn’t mix. But as soon as she got home, she and Shelly were spending the day with Claude. The appointments were already booked. God knew they deserved it—a month of trouncing through backcountry definitely warranted six hours of pampering, fun, and catching up.

While two masseurs kneaded away knots of tension, Shelly would finally fill her in on the details of their last hurried conversation as they parted ways at Reagan International.

“Morgan, I know this isn’t a good time—that we’re leaving—but I need to tell you something.”

“Okay.”

“Ian came to my place last night. We got into an argument—”

“Wait. What were you and Ian doing together? Weren’t you both getting ready for the trip?”

“It’s a long story. I’ll explain everything when we get back, but he kissed me, Morgan. I mean, really kissed me. He said we’re going to have a serious conversation in Montana—that he thinks he loves me and has a lot to say before I just get up and walk out of his life.”

“Wow. I—”

“What am I supposed to do? I leave for L.A. in five weeks. What should I do?”

“I-I…Jesus, Shell, I’m still trying to catch up here. I had no idea anything was going on between the two of you. Do you love him?”

“I don’t know. I… Damn. That’s my boarding call.”

“We’ll talk when you get back.”

Oh, they would talk all right. Being left to dangle with small tidbits of a surprising turn of events was its own form of torture. Not knowing what had gone on between her best friend and Ian was…unbearable.

If she hurried with her shower and phone call to her father, she might catch Shelly alone in her hotel room—if they weren’t out in backcountry.

With a shrug, Morgan snapped the shower curtain open, turned the lever to hot, smiled when the spray spit from the head. “Oh, I am so ready for this.” Steam plumed, fogging the mirror, filling the room with warm, moist heat. A grin spread across her face as she unbuttoned the flannel she wore over her t-shirt. This was the best part of her entire trip—real soap, hot water, the feel of soft cotton against her skin.

A faint knock sounded at the door. She swore. “I was so
close
.” Morgan turned off the nozzle with a bad tempered twist, buttoned the grimy shirt she’d almost undone. “Just a minute.” Peeking through the peephole, she frowned at the staff member in the hall.

Morgan opened the door with a polite smile. “Yes, can I help you?”

The perky blond beamed. “Ms. Morgan Taylor?”

“That’s me.”

“Hi, I’m Judy, the night manager. I tried calling up to your room—several times—but I kept getting a busy signal.”

Morgan glanced at the phone. She’d taken it off the hook in hopes of avoiding the habitual and foolish prank calls Dave and Jim pestered members of the team with every time they got a hotel room.

“You had an urgent message waiting for you. Someone called a couple of days ago. The guy said you’d be staying here. I saw that you just checked in, so I thought I should bring this up.”

Frowning, Morgan took the pink piece of paper. Unease roiled in her belly as she unfolded the note. “EXTREMELY URGENT—CALL IMMEDIATELY!!! Dad” The words were underlined three times. Had something happened to her mother? “Thank you, Judy,” she murmured, shutting the door in the woman’s face.

Morgan raced to the cell phone she hadn’t powered on in two weeks, dialed her parents’ house number. It rung incessantly, and her stomach tensed with panic. Why didn’t the voicemail pick up? She tried her father’s cell next with unsteady fingers, pacing back and forth while her heart galloped wildly in her chest.

“Hel—”

“Dad, what’s wrong? Where are you? Is Mom all right?”

“Thank God, Morgan. I’ve been waiting for your call. Yes, Mom’s fine. I’m at the office.”

Inhaling deeply, Morgan sunk to the bed. “Okay, good, good. What’s going on?”

“Morgan.”

She stood again, nerves skittering down her spine at the trace of sorrow in her father’s voice.

“I have some hard news. I’m not sure how to tell you this.”

“Go ahead, Dad. Please.” She moved about the room, unable to be still, as her heart rate accelerated again.

“Shelly, Ian and Tom…they—”

“What? What’s wrong with them?” She gripped the phone until her knuckles whitened.

“They’re…they’re gone, honey.”

Morgan stopped in her tracks. “What do you mean they’re gone? What does that mean? They’re missing? How long? The guys and I’ll be on the first plane—”

“No, honey. They’re dead.”

She stared at the ugly curtains half opened to the fading light, unable to grasp her father’s words.

When she didn’t respond, he spoke again. “Your team is dead, Morgan.”

Wispy fog threatened to dull her thoughts but she shook it away. “That’s ridiculous. There must be some mistake.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“This just can’t be true. How can they be dead?”

“We’re still waiting for all of the details. I received word forty-eight hours ago.”

“No.”

“Yes, Morgan. Their families went out to identify their bodies, honey. Dean flew out with them to lend any support the Bureau could offer. I should’ve gone myself, but he wanted to do this.”

Her friends were dead? She couldn’t get a handle on it. “Was it…a bear?”

“No, Love, they were found shot.”

Nothing could have prepared her for that—nothing. Legs giving out, she leaned against the dingy, yellowed wall for support as she slid to the floor. “Oh Daddy, I don’t understand. Shot?”

“I wish there was some way to spare you all of this.”