Cyrus Walsh had heard that a new bunch of bounty hunters was setting up an office in West Yellowstone, and he wondered whether that would push him sooner than he would’ve liked to pull up stakes and move on to a new adventure. The Montana Bounty Hunters tended to suck the competition right out of existence wherever they landed. They were that good.

However, he’d be sad to wave goodbye to West Yellowstone. He rather liked this town on the Montana/Wyoming border. He liked the raw beauty of the mountains and loved spending his free time hunting and fishing. He mostly liked the people, although there were your usual nutjobs—the ones who wanted to save the trees and the animals—a lovely goal, but had they ever heard of overpopulation?—and the more dangerous ones who wanted freedom from any rules that a civilized society might impose. The tourists mostly didn’t stay long enough to annoy him.

Cyrus could get along with anyone if pushed. However, he preferred peace and solitude, well away from the babble of what stood for conversation but was mostly a waste of breath.

So, maybe he was a little antisocial. He liked his life and his autonomy. Plus, his love of hunting had led him into a profession he was especially suited for: hunting people.

He’d done it while on active duty as an Army Ranger. When he’d decided he was getting too good at killing people, he’d landed on his feet in the civilian world, using his skills to capture rather than kill. The money was good when you could find the work. The bigger the bad, the better the pay.

Which was why he was presently on the prowl for one Norman Ellis. Norman was a mean, beefy guy who couldn’t control his fists when he was sober and who’d decided that armed robbery was a highly efficient way to earn money. He’d been smart at first, traveling well outside his local area to commit his crimes and stealing vehicles there for getaway cars. He’d gone into places wearing masks and gloves, setting timers so he wouldn’t be tempted to stay too long. He’d worked alone because he hadn’t trusted an accomplice not to make a mistake.

His mistake had been the fact his pride in his well-honed M.O. had led him to create an online persona where he’d detailed his brilliance and even sometimes filmed himself committing his crimes. He’d reveled in the hits his alter ego’s online activities had received.

Although he’d used a voice modifier to disguise his voice, he hadn’t been so careful about the words he’d chosen to describe his victims. An old girlfriend had heard him describe the “blondy bitch” behind the counter of a jewelry store on the outskirts of Vegas and had called into a tipline to say it was something he’d called her and that the build and the way the Highway Bandit carried himself looked an awful lot like her loser ex-boyfriend.

When the cops had paid an early morning visit to his home in Green River, Wyoming, he’d answered the door in his underwear, then stood by, stone-faced and seething, while law enforcement had tossed his house, finding money hidden in a lockbox under the floorboards, and fancy watches that they’d traced to several of the pawn shops and jewelry stores he’d robbed.

Unfortunately for the district attorney, Norman had managed to squirrel away enough cash to buy himself a fancy lawyer who had him out on bail the next day. Norman had been on the run ever since. If the cops had bothered to mention the amount of camping and survival gear he’d had in his garage, the judge might have had a second or third thought about letting him back out on the street.

His high school friends had told Cyrus that Norman thought of himself as a survivalist. He’d practiced living “off the grid,” preparing for some apocalypse, they’d said, but Cyrus believed he’d been preparing for the time when he’d have to outrun the law.

He’d picked the right place to begin living off the land. Deep in the Bridger-Teton National Forest near Big Piney, he had set up camp on a tributary of the Green River. His erstwhile friends had mentioned a favorite camping spot they’d used back in the day, so Cyrus had hoofed it through the forest to the point on the map they’d marked. Then he’d followed the scent of smoking meat.

Norman had racks made of limbs he’d stripped from trees erected over a large fire pit. The meat and fish were draped over the racks. The aroma made Cyrus’s belly growl. He hadn’t eaten since early that morning, and he’d been hiking for a good two hours. He hoped Norman was nearby so he could take him down and then enjoy a meal of smoked venison.

It was unfortunate that three other hunters were entering the vicinity, and he wondered whether he’d been the one to inadvertently lead them to this spot.

They passed him as he hunkered down, covered in fronds and fallen leaves. He knew they were hunters because their badges sparkled from the chests of their Kevlar vests.

One woman, two men. And the men were following the curvy brunette’s lead. Interesting.

She took a knee on the forest floor and stared through the brush at the racks and the smoldering fire. When she glanced around their position, he knew she was planning to set up surveillance right in front of him, and he wasn’t having it.

“You’re spoiling my view,” he whispered loudly. “Plus, you’re too close to his trail through here. He’ll bolt the second he spots you. A better place to hunker down would be behind that stand of lodgepole pines to your right.”

The woman stiffened and turned her head slowly in his direction. Then she squinted, searching for his location as she stood. One of the large men beside her gripped her upper arm and tried to move her behind him, but she held up her hand to stop him while she continued to gaze in his direction.

Cyrus lifted a finger from beneath the vegetation cloaking him to show her where he was.

“You a hunter?” she whispered back.

“I am.”

A smile stretched across her face. “Split the bounty four ways?”

At least she wasn’t saying they’d take the entire amount. He grunted. “Just get your asses in the trees so he doesn’t make you.”

She gave him a two-fingered salute and led the group to the lodgepoles. There was some soft rustling as they camouflaged themselves, which had him cursing under his breath until they quieted.

Then they waited.

He was beginning to itch from whatever he was sitting in, and he was pretty sure a spider had crawled under his collar. After about twenty minutes, more rustling sounded, and the woman pushed up from behind a bush and crept, tree to tree, back to his location.

She went down on her belly beside him. “I’m Darleen Crocket, by the way,” she said in the quietest of whispers.

He pulled some of his frondy branches over her to keep her out of sight. Now, they could see each other face to face. “Cyrus Walsh.” He said it without taking his gaze from the campsite, not inviting conversation but also not giving her a scowl to shut her up.

“We’re setting up an office in West Yellowstone.”

He nodded. “I heard a new outfit was moving in.”

“Horning in, you mean, right?” She grinned. “We’re part of the Montana Bounty Hunters.”

He wrinkled his nose. “You gonna have film crews crawling all over the place?”

“We have no plans to participate in that circus, although there could be some overlap if some of the folks from Bear Lodge or Dead Horse hunt this far south during filming.”

“Knew it was time to move on,” he muttered, letting a little of his irritation bleed through.

“We’re looking for hunters.”

“So run an ad.”

“We don’t want wannabes. Or at least, if we take on folks to be trained, we want to start with people who have some skills. You found Norman’s camp.”

“So did you.”

“You beat us to his buddies. They said a hunter had spoken to them an hour before we did. Seems we have the same instincts.”

Again, he grunted. “Your point?” Although he was pretty sure where this conversation was going.

“After we get Norman in cuffs—”

“You mean, and after I get me some of that jerky he’s making—”

Her lips stretched. “It does smell good. We haven’t eaten since O-dark-thirty this morning.”

His gaze narrowed on her face. “You ex-military?”

“Army. I’m assuming you are, too…?”

“Ranger.”

“Most of the MBH hires are ex-military. Most are spec ops. Not me, of course.”

“But you’re in charge…?”

“I was an officer. Lots of command time. Fletch Winters—he’s the guy who started MBH, and Cage Morgan—”

“The MMA fighter?”

“Yup. Anyway, they thought my organizational skills would suit my running the office in Yellowstone.”

“So, that was Cage with you. I thought I recognized him. The other guy—the one who looked unhappy when I spoke up…”

“That’s Malcolm Winslow. He’s my partner.”

He didn’t ask whether she meant bounty hunting partner or lover because he assumed they were both by the way the guy had moved on her.

“So, what’s your plan?” she asked, tilting her chin toward the encampment.

“As soon as he gets back to camp, I’ll wait until he’s looking away, checking his meat, then I’ll make my move.”

She nodded. “You hear that, boys?”

Cyrus blinked and narrowed his gaze at her.

She tapped her ear. “We wear earpieces when we’re ready to do a takedown.”

Must be nice. Not just the earpieces but having the backup, too.

In the distance, he heard the crackle of leaves and snapping of twigs.

“Quiet,” he whispered.

She nodded and looked through the bushes toward the campsite. However, as he had predicted, Norman was following the faint trail Cyrus had detected. His large frame came into view. His rifle was slung over his shoulder, and a sheath was strapped to his thigh. In one hand, he dangled two rabbits tied together with string. His gaze swept the area, narrowing. He paused for a second, then continued moving toward his camp, pausing again before entering the clearing and moving toward the fire pit.

He tossed the rabbits on a large stone, placed his rifle on the ground beside it, and knelt on one knee while he pulled his knife.

Now was not the time. Although his entire body tensed, Cyrus waited, knowing that Norman could still put up quite a battle should they approach, even though he’d be outgunned if he reached for the rifle.

He wanted a “clean” takedown—a few well-placed bruises and cracked ribs. Those would be satisfying, but he didn’t want to kill the dude. He didn’t like mess. He didn’t want to call the authorities to investigate a crime scene because he could be tied up for weeks before being cleared.

The woman beside him was equally tense, her unblinking gaze on Norman.

“Hold,” she whispered to her team.

So they waited while Norman skinned and sliced up the rabbits. Not until he draped the small slabs over the rack did Cyrus nod to the woman and begin pushing up from his hiding place.

Norman had left the knife and the weapon near the butchering stone.

He pushed up, pulled his Wilson Combat SXF9 handgun, and ran, not worrying about noise. There was no sneaking up on a clearing with a man as attuned to his surroundings as Norman.

As he crashed into the clearing, Norman turned, his gaze going straight to his weapons. Behind him, Darleen pushed through the undergrowth. The two men hiding in the lodgepole pines also burst into the clearing. Everyone converged on Norman.

“Don’t be stupid,” Cyrus said in his meanest, lowest-pitched voice, his weapon pointed right at Norman’s chest. “You’re surrounded. Live to wiggle out of custody another damn day.”

Norman sneered, and his gaze shot to the weapons he’d left beside the butchering stone. Fuck. He was going for it.

The moment he lunged, Cyrus took aim at Norman’s leg and pulled the trigger, cursing as the man hit the ground and screamed.

“Dumbass,” Cyrus bit out, moving toward the weapons to kick them far out of reach, then keeping watch over Norman as Darleen and her man both laid down their weapons so Norman couldn’t try to take them and knelt beside the man who was writhing on the ground.

Malcolm pulled a first aid pack out of a pouch clipped to his web belt. He unrolled gauze and bandages, then used his own knife, aiming a glare at Norman to warn him against trying anything while he cut the leg of the other man’s jeans away. The wound he exposed wasn’t gushing, which would’ve indicated he’d hit an artery. So, Malcolm quickly layered cotton wadding and gauze over the wound, then used bandaging to tie around his thigh, slowing the blood flow.

As Cyrus kept watch, Cage moved around the campsite, found a cot, and collapsed the legs. They’d use it as a stretcher to carry him out. When they had Norman on the cot, his hands zip-tied in front of him, and ropes encircling his chest and waist to keep him attached to the cot, Cage stepped next to Cyrus.

“That was good work. You didn’t take him out. You could have, and no one would’ve said you were in the wrong.”

“Killing’s messy.”

Cage nodded. The corners of his mouth twitched. “So, what did you think about Darleen’s pitch?”

Cyrus looked sideways. “You still got that earpiece turned on?”

Both Malcolm and Darleen glanced from Norman to Cyrus, their eyebrows rising.

Cage chuckled and tilted his head to remove his earpiece. Then he flicked the tiny switch to turn it off. “It’s just you and me now.”

“I’ve caught a few of your shows. You guys mostly work with partners.”

“It’s a safety thing, mostly,” Cage said. “When things go sideways, it’s good to know you’ve got backup.”

“I like quiet.”

Cage laughed. “You must’ve been watching Cowboy and Chase. Those two can’t help but chatter like magpies.”

“If I signed on with the folks in Yellowstone, and if you all insisted I needed a partner, I’d want a choice as to whether or not they’d do.”

“Finding the right partner is kind of like choosing a wife,” Cage said, nodding. “You’ve got to be on the same page. You have to be able to nearly read each other’s minds. I get it.”

“I don’t know about wives and shit—not looking for one. If I take a partner, I’d want the final say.”

Cage nodded and then held out his hand. “Does that mean you’re willing to give us a try?”

Cyrus appreciated that the man wasn’t expecting a commitment right this second. “Let’s see how this goes.”

They shook and then moved toward Norman, who was grimacing and muttering curses under his breath. “I’m gonna sue your ass,” he said, glaring at Cyrus.

Cyrus shrugged. “Sue all you want. I don’t have much to lose. Just know this: if you escape again, I will find you—and next time, I won’t give you a second chance.”