Undercover Texas - By Robin Perini Page 0,1

head on the seat rest and closed his eyes, envisioning the approach route to grab his quarry. Inside the house or out? Dusk? Full dark? What would be the best escape path? He wished he didn’t feel like he’d missed something important.

He looked over at Jimmy. “You’re sure she lives alone? No lover who’s out of town or on a military assignment? She’s got a kid out of wedlock, so she’s no saint.”

“I’ll check again.” Jimmy tapped his smartphone and chomped his gum, his fingers flying over the keys.

The kid’s computer hacking skills were useful. Only part of his brain that worked right, but he could find out anything about anyone.

“No husband. No lover. No baby daddy coming round. No siblings. No parents. No one will care when she disappears...except maybe the geeks at the university where she works.”

“She got a gas line going into the house?”

He flipped through a couple of screens. “Yep. Stove. Perfect setup.”

“If the fire is hot enough, it ought to destroy the DNA.”

Jimmy drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Can I pick the people we’re gonna kill now? Please.”

“Okay. I guess you’ve earned it.” Terence scratched his chest. “Remember, we need a woman and a child.” He turned his head and met Jimmy’s glassy-eyed gaze. His nephew was already imagining the kill in his mind, just as Terence used to. “So, where do we hunt?”

“Ummm...the mall?” His nephew bit his lip and sent Terence a cautious glance.

“The mall.” What an idiot. “Why don’t you pick the damn police station? The mall means video cameras, and the victim will likely be someone with money and ties to the community. That’ll trigger a missing person’s investigation. Television, newspapers.” Terence glared, gripping his Bowie knife tighter. “I’m not gonna get caught ’cause you’re stupid.”

Jimmy swallowed so loud the gulp echoed through the van.

Yeah, the kid should be scared. The moment he screwed up, he’d disappear. Nephew or not. “Try again. This time use your brain.”

Jimmy bit his lip, his brow furrowing in concentration. “A homeless shelter?”

“Not bad.” Terence nodded at his nephew’s hopeful expression, then slipped the knife back into its sheath. “I like it. Take us to the next county. I know just the place.” He’d stayed there when he’d first been discharged. No one wanted to hire a vet with his record. He’d been at rock bottom then.

He leaned back in the van seat, satisfied how things had worked out. The ones who had looked down on him were all six feet under now. He’d made sure of that.

Just like he’d make sure that Dr. Erin Jamison and her son would disappear tonight. The whole world would believe they were dead.

Terence laughed. Before those bastards were through with her, she’d probably wish she was.

* * *

HUNTER GRAHAM PACED HIS LIVING room, cursing the sweltering New Orleans summers that made him feel so trapped. He’d been edgy all day, with nothing to account for it. Except maybe thinking about a trip he wanted to take, but couldn’t.

He stared out the huge glass front windows. Heat rose in shimmering waves from the sidewalk and the early afternoon sun flooded his living room with glaring light and oppressive heat. What idiot came up with the brilliant notion of lining three-quarters of the room with huge panes of glass in a state frequented by severe wind gusts, killer storms and hurricanes?

Deserts, horses and horned toads sounded better and better every stifling day he spent here. He’d have been long gone back to Texas if not for Erin Jamison and the baby.

Was she the source of his edginess?

He continued pacing like a caged animal. Erin was his weakness. He had no friends outside the company. No family. No social life. He hadn’t allowed himself a bit of softness since he’d screwed up and let Erin into his heart that week. What a stupid mistake seducing her had been. She and the baby could pay for that with their lives if his enemies found out.

Cursing one last time, he walked back to the state-of-the-art gym he’d set up in his living room.

Hunter centered himself on the vinyl seat of the weight bench, shoved the barbell straight up and locked his elbows. He focused on the weight, the tension in his arms, and pushed his feet into the floor, his entire body straining. Sweat pooled on his forehead.

Slowly, he lowered the two-hundred-fifty-pound bar to his chest. Aware of each muscle, he inhaled, then pressed up with a loud exhale. His arms trembled