CHAPTER ONE


Rafe ducked her head, bent her shoulders, and pulled her faded cargo jacket
tight around her as she slipped past two employees. They'd stepped outside in
the back alley for a smoke break, but as both had turned sharply towards an
outburst of laughter in the street, Rafe took advantage and quickly passed
through the first dank hallway and through the back kitchen. The kitchen had
already been closed so the absence of light helped her passage, but she
flattened herself against the wall when two bartending employees briskly walked
past her on their own way outside.


Rafe caught sight of two packs of cigarettes and a lighter clenched in a
hand, but as they moved through a rotating door, Rafe darted inside just on the
other side of the door's swoop.


The air was smoky, greasy, and drenched in sweat but Rafe bit back a grin as
she felt her insides roll to a familiar terrain.


She kept to the back and found a cold booth in a back corner where she slid
in and let out a breath.


'It's not a fucking mission. There's no fucking stints to take care.
Relax.' Rafe clenched her jaw as she narrowed her eyes and perused the bar
for a better scrutiny.


She wasn't there on a mission.


She wasn't there to take out a target, to add back-up support for someone
else, and she wasn't planning on using her gun.


'Expect the unexpected.'


It was one of Jace's golden rules and it always proved to be true.


Rafe was there to get information on her sister. She didn't expect to find
her sister, to be told where to find her sister, but she was there to find
someone who might've remembered her sister.


Rafe had been a professional in the 'hunt and destroy task force' too long to
know the statistics. Sarah Sullivan had been at the Carla's Cats, but that'd
been three days ago. And memories in a bar tended to be short and fleeting.


As she scanned the layout, Rafe saw three regulars hunched over their drinks
at the bar. She knew they were regulars from how they sat. They knew where they
sat and they knew that everyone else did too. Of the three, only one guy stood
out and it was because he'd been watching her from the corner of his eye. The
other two were arguing about a sports game, but their hand movements relayed
they'd been drinking for a few hours already. The third guy—he was
different.


Rafe wondered if he was on his first drink or if he just added new ice after
the old ones had melted.


'Fucking relax, bitch.' Rafe reprimanded herself.


The guy was old with shaggy graying hair. She highly doubted the dirt grimed
and greasy coveralls belayed an undercover mercenary on her tail. And the guy's
workman boots sealed the deal for her. No undercover agent would dare wear those
boots. They were suicide if someone was backed in a corner unless that person
would throw them at their opponent, but running and evading—no way in hell.


Rafe turned her shoulders to look towards the dance floor where two small
town girls were swaying more for attention than to the beat of the music. One
wore a flannel shirt tied underneath her breasts, but the white stretchy top
underneath didn't conceal the girl's hearty appetite. And her friend's appetite
didn't seem to be smaller because her own too-small jeans cut into the skin
where Rafe knew a deep red mark would be hurting the next day.


As Rafe turned to assess the one bouncer who seemed impatient for his own
smoke break, she found her eye wandering back to the coverall regular at the
bar.


Rafe tucked her chin and slid a napkin dispenser at an angle. Instead of
watching the tables that she still hadn't studied, Rafe looked into the shiny
metallic dispenser and watched the old guy at the bar again.


He continued to watch her, but Rafe sensed a curiosity. She didn't sense any
professional intent, but it was something—just something that niggled at the
back of her mind.


Girls were watched for two reasons: familiarity or sexual attraction.


This guy—he wasn't watching her for either of those reasons. And it didn't
set right with Rafe.


"Fuck you, man! I mean—fuck you, just…fucker!"


Rafe looked up from the napkin dispenser and turned her head around to watch
openly. The two regulars next to her admirer had come to blows. One had pushed
back his stool and now stood with raised fists and puffed out cheeks as he
continued to rant, "I told you what I said and I never said a damn foolish thing
like you—go to hell, you fu—"


A punch to his mouth ended the next round of insults and Rafe watched
alongside the rest of the bar as the two threw arms around each other, rolled
against the bar, sent two more barstools scattering across the floor, and
finally landed with a thump on one table and down to the ground.


The corner of her mouth quirked upwards when a basket of popcorn that had
been on the upturned table reigned over the rolling drunks.


"Oh shit, man! Hey—" The bouncer stopped just beside them, but when he was
ignored and another punch was sloppily delivered, the bouncer ran through the
closed kitchen for aid.


Rafe's eyes skirted to the last remaining regular at the bar. He still sat on
his stool, but instead of watching her, he sipped his drink and seemed unfazed
as he watched the night's entertainment right behind him.


A small grin flitted to Rafe's features as she watched the rest of the
bar.


No one seemed distraught. The girls still danced and fluttered their
eyelashes towards a table of two interested suitors. And after a second's wait,
Rafe knew the employees weren't too keen to end their smoke break.


A few people were watching the fight with interest, but Rafe was willing to
bet that those two fought on a regular basis.


Rafe felt another notch of familiarity click inside of her.


She knew this scene. She could handle this scene.


After another minute of fighting, the bouncer and one of the bartending
employees emerged from the kitchen and wasted no time before scooping the
brawlers apart and out the door. Another girl took her point behind the bar and
immediately filled up the last customer still on his barstool.


And that's when Rafe saw a server grab a menu and head in her direction.


Her nametag read Carla and Rafe saw a friendly pairs of blue eyes underneath
a heavy coat of purple eyeshadow. The lips were bold with bright red lipstick
and a pair of hoop earrings dangled to her shoulders. Rafe estimated the frosted
blonde's age to be in her younger forties, but knew 'Carla' would probably lie
and say it was a decade younger.


As Carla drew abreast her table, Rafe saw the uniformed black t-shirt was
stained, dusty, and used as a handkerchief. At the top left corner was an emblem
of a cat with a sparkling eye with an arched back.


'It's a fucking cat. She's got a fucking cat on her shirt.' Rafe
thought disgustedly, but it didn't matter what she thought of the uniform—Carla
looked friendly and the type who liked to talk—stranger or friend.


Rafe knew another thing, she'd just gotten lucky.


"What'll I get you?" Carla drawled and waited with two hands stuck inside her
front pockets.


Rafe glanced down and saw one of Carla's fingers move inside.


'The girl's fingering her lighter.'


Rafe understood the itch for another smoke, but leaned back and asked
instead, "That sort of stuff happen a lot?" She motioned towards the still
upturned table and three barstools that were left on the floor.


Carla lifted a thick outlined eyebrow and shifted to lean her hip on the
table. "Oh yeah. Rupert and Egert. That's what we call those two morons. They
think they know the pedigree about everything, but they're a bunch of
sweethearts at the end of the day. They just don't always get along when they
disagree."


"I was wondering. No one seemed really surprised by it."


"Mmmm, not really. Even Cliff didn't stop 'em and he usually tries before
they start throwing punches. I guess he got other things on his mind
tonight."


"Cliff?" Rafe questioned, but glanced to her admirer at the bar.


"Oh yeah." Carla glanced over her shoulder and waved a hand in his direction.
"That's Cliff Greenly. He owns the local garage around Red Valley. He's a good
guy, been through a hard time with his family. He lost two of his sons in the
war and his wife died a year ago to cancer. Through all of that, though, he's
got a heart of gold. He don't like people fighting when it's not needed. It's
sort of his soft spot, you know."


Really.


'Don't waste time. Claim your objective.'


Jace's words flashed in her head and Rafe knew she'd lingered enough. Cliff
wasn't a threat and she was there for a reason.


"Listen," Rafe started and tried to ask in a softened voice as she cringed on
the inside, "…you work here a lot? I mean, you look like a full-time gal."


Carla's eyes narrowed and she straightened, "What do you mean by that?"


Rafe amended quickly, "You're a hard worker and you probably get taken for
granted."


'They're always the fucking same. The ones who get shit on, get it for a
reason.'


Carla's back relaxed and she rested her hip back on the table. Rafe saw the
softening and glint of happiness in Carla's blue eyes and knew she'd get the
truth—or at least as close to the truth as possible.


People like being complimented and in most, they tried to be helpful
afterwards. Rafe hadn't listened to this lesson, but after she watched it bring
results for the last five years—she finally started abiding by it. Hell, though,
sometimes it killed her to be nice.


"Darn right." Carla said happily, "You think this place is called Carla's
Cats for nothing, do you? Hedge named the place after me. And don't you think
it's because he took a liking to my three babies at home. You're darn right. I
do get taken for granted. Hedge doesn't appreciate me as much as he should. I
get propositioned on a regular basis by his boys. They all come in and take a
liking to me. It'd suit him right if I took up one their offers one of these
days. I still got what it takes. I could be a Panther girl. I have what it
takes."


'What kind of shithole name is Hedge?' Rafe asked herself, but
remembered some of her own teammate's names. Coolay. Carls. Geek Kid. They were
always named for a reason.


"You say Panthers?" Rafe narrowed her eyes as she asked with a held
breath.


'Boss fucking left and I still can't get away from him. His fucking
Panthers are everywhere.'


A flush of pride filled Carla's cheeks as she nodded, "Oh yeah. You've heard
of the Panthers, right?"


Rafe was well-acquainted with the rebel gang that was fast becoming a power
force on every criminal market in their nation. Rafe hadn't needed to be a part
of her government issued team to know about the gang. She knew about them
because her leader had once been their leader.


Rafe hated the Panthers for one fact and one fact only—it hadn't been because
she'd been on the lawful side and they'd been the adversary. It'd been because
Jace had left her team, but he hadn't left the Panthers.


It was spiteful and it was elementary, but Rafe hated them because they got
him when she'd lost him.


'God—I could gun them down right here, right now. I hate those stints.'



Rafe swallowed the loathing note in her voice and managed out, "Yeah. I've
heard of them."


Carla proved clueless and seemed to gloat, "Hedge is a retired Panther. His
old pack always comes in here. This is their hang-out, you know? You see Chris
over there?"


Rafe looked where Carla nodded and saw the bouncer conversing with one of the
dance floor girls.


"Yeah?" Rafe winced at the tight note in her voice. 'I could use a blade.
That won't bring too much attention.'


"He's a pincher for them." Carla said in a hushed tone and waited.


Rafe sighed softly. She knew the game that Carla wanted to play and felt a
tight ball start to knot in her gut when she bit the bait and was forced to ask,
"What does that mean?"


Carla was elated and gushed, "It means that he's in the beginning stages of
becoming a Panther. Chris is a good boy. He'll be a good Panther. And he's got
Hedge to look out for him. He's sort of Chris' mentor, you know."


No doubt Carla forgot how Hedge took her for granted now, not when she could
boast about her man's prowess.


"One of these days, Chris will be a full-fledged Panther cub. Of course, when
that happens, he'll have to quit working here, but…he's a good kid."


Carla watched in motherly pride as Chris scooped a hand around the flannel
dance floor girl and grabbed a handful of ass.


Rafe watched as she felt the knot slowly expand up her body. Chris was
awarded with an open-mouthed kiss and the two fell against the wall to start a
different appraisal of each other. And Carla chuckled in her smoker's voice.


That was when the front door was flung open and six leather-clad Panthers
walked through. Five were large and muscular. The sixth was skinny, but he had
the eye for killing.


Everyone knew they were Panthers from the tattoo of a panther that was
wrapped around their necks. It started on one side and was designed to look like
the panther was resting on them. The eyes were open and captivating on some and
closed on the others.


Rafe felt a burst of cruel delight inside of her.


"Oh, I should get going. That's Hedge." Carla straightened abruptly and
turned back to Rafe. She pulled out her pink lighter from her pocket and asked,
"You want anything to drink or eat, honey?"


'I want you to not call me honey.' Rafe thought savagely, but she
smiled tightly and asked instead, "Actually, I was wondering if you knew of
someone. I'm looking for my sister. She went missing a few days ago and I was
told that she'd been in here three nights ago."


"Oh." Instant sympathy flashed in Carla's gullible blues. She murmured, "I'm
so sorry, honey. What's your girl's name?"


"Sarah Sullivan." Rafe watched intently.


Nothing.


There was no reaction in Carla's eyes as she just looked regretful and
drawled, "I'm so sorry, honey. I've never heard that name, but the boys had a
bunch of girls with them that night. I can ask, if you'd like."


Something in Rafe knew that when Carla said 'the boys', she wasn't referring
to Rupert or Egert. Rafe glanced to the two tables where the Panthers now sat.
Chris sat beside them with his new 'friend' on his lap. She looked to literally
be purring.


"That'd be…great." Rafe expelled, but she only think, 'Fucking
stints.'