Hot Pursuit by Lorie O'Clare

muscular, shorter man’s head. He couldn’t see Marley’s face, but it looked as if the man was walking stiffly.
    Good, Ben thought. At least he wasn’t the only one hurting. Marley pulled into the twenty-four-hour gas station across the street when Ben did. Neither acted as if he knew the other when they got coffee.
    “I know what you’re doing.” Marley stood outside his Escalade and stared at Ben through the steam of his coffee.
    Ben gulped down half his cup. He would love to go buy another cup but wouldn’t risk having to stop for bathroom breaks. “What’s that?” he asked dryly.
    “You’re headed up there to warn him.”
    Ben had given a lot of thought to what Marley might accuse him of doing while following him. Driving after him up the state of California because the guy trashed Ben’s apartment seemed a bit extreme. More so, Ben had devised a plan so he’d know what to say when confronted.
    “To warn him?” Ben cleared the distance between him and Marley.
    The man stood a few inches shorter than Ben, and Ben probably had a good forty pounds more in muscle weight. Not to mention the guy was probably a good ten years older. To his credit, Marley didn’t shy down.
    “What exactly do you think you found in those postcards?” Ben asked.
    “I think Micah was letting you know where he was.”
    Ben shook his head, refusing even to acknowledge the name Marley threw in his face. “If that is what you think, I’ll be collecting this bounty without any problems,” he said, laughed, and walked back to his bike.
    “Collecting what bounty?” Marley called after him.
    Ben turned around. “We knew the Mulligan Stew assassin was in L.A.,” he began, then shook his head, trying to make it appear the memory was a bad one. “I knew we were close to nabbing him, although now it’s even sweeter with a million-dollar bounty.” Ben waved his free hand as if this should all be common knowledge. “Then, we’re out apprehending a client. It was no big deal, a routine case. We’re a few yards away from capturing the son of a bitch and some asshole shoots him. Less than an hour later police are swarming our office and it’s all over that the Mulligan Stew assassin shot our guy.”
    Ben shook his head, drank more of his coffee, and stood with his back to his bike facing Marley. The guy was staring back at him, digesting what he’d just been told.
    “If what you’re saying is true,” he said slowly, “it explains why he shot someone that didn’t fit the profile compared to everyone else he killed.”
    Ben nodded, getting into his act, and pointed a finger at Marley. “And that he shot him with the same gun used to kill that CIA agent. It was how he let us know it was him. Otherwise we would have believed we had a random shooting. The son of a bitch was taunting us.”
    “That doesn’t explain the postcards.”
    Ben hardened his expression. He knew Marley was probably snickering over the shiner Ben had. And it did hurt. Nothing that wouldn’t go away in a day or so, but when he frowned he felt the bruised skin tighten on his face.
    “You broke into my home and stole those. By all rights I should be kicking your ass again instead of discussing anything about the assassin with you.”
    “Kicking whose ass?” Marley laughed.
    The man was hard as nails. It had felt as if he’d been hitting a wall the few times Ben got in a good punch the night before.
    “Seems to me you’ve got some mighty dark bruises there, son.”
    Marley wasn’t that much older than Ben that he rated calling him son. But fighting with the guy would just make him even more determined to beat Ben to their destination.
    “I guess we both look alike more than we would otherwise,” he said coolly.
    “These postcards came from the assassin, from Micah.” Marley’s voice was insistent. He was so sure he was right and wanted confirmation.
    Ben wouldn’t give that to him in a million years. “You’re wrong,” he said softly, shaking