Mica: Montana Bounty Hunters: Dead Horse, MT, #8

By Delilah Devlin

MONTANA BOUNTY HUNTERS: DEAD HORSE, MT
Authentic Men... Real Adventures...

Former Army Special Forces, Mica Ford, is a bounty hunter now. He likes the work and likes being his own boss. When a hunt goes awry, and a team of hunters from Montana Bounty Hunters provides an assist, he's persuaded to at least listen to what the head of their agency has to offer and agrees to a meeting.

Amy Calloway wants more than anything to prove to the people of Dead Horse, Montana, that she's not a loser simply because she shares a last name with "those Calloway brothers." Since she's not cut out for any other more reputable job, she has set her sights on being a bounty hunter. She's fit, has spent an afternoon or two at the firing range, and has watched every episode of Bounty Hunters of the Northwest – We're Dead Horse. When she walks into the MBH office to ask for a job, she knows she's as ready as she'll ever be.

Mica has no intention of accepting a job with MBH, but he watches Amy work up the courage to demand her chance. Her sincerity and courage impress him, and it doesn't hurt that she's cute as hell. He finds himself accepting a trial run working with the team and then commits to training Amy—just to make sure she stays safe. However, keeping her safe while teaching her how to hunt becomes a challenge when Amy starts improvising during takedowns…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Delilah Devlin
• Release date: Jun 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223822592

Delilah Devlin

Always a risk taker, Delilah Devlin lived in the Saudi Peninsula during the Gulf War, thwarted an attempted abduction by white slave traders, and survived her children’s juvenile delinquency. In addition to Saudi Arabia, she has lived in Germany and Ireland, but calls Arkansas home for now.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Mica Ford wasn’t one to hold grudges. At least not these days. Grudges required fury and bile, and he’d had his fill of pointless anger and heartburn.

However, he was beginning to get a bit perturbed by the crew of bounty hunters working out of an office in Dead Horse, Montana. This was the third time they’d crept into one of his stakeouts. Twice now, he’d had to withdraw from a takedown and let them score his target. There were just too many of them, and again, he hadn’t wanted a dustup and wasn’t looking for a fight. But this time, he’d be damned if he let them scoop a third bounty right from under his nose.

This time, his target was one Norman P. Rudd. The bounty was high enough that Mica could live off the proceeds for a good four months. According to the bail bond company’s description, Norman had failed to appear before the judge to begin his trial for numerous charges stemming from an incident where Norman had gone postal on a neighbor whose political campaign posters didn’t share his flavor of affiliation.

Norman hadn’t stopped at simply pulling up the neighbor’s signs and burning them in a bonfire in the middle of the man’s front yard. No, he’d taken a tree branch, set the end on fire, torched his neighbor’s house and RV, and then set wood he’d stacked beside a propane tank on fire. The explosion from the tank had rattled and broken windows throughout the neighborhood, including Norman’s. Even before the firetrucks and police arrived, the neighbor had pulled in front of his house, jumped out of his pickup, and the two men had entered into a brawl. The neighbor had been horrified by the damage to his home and belongings, but worse, his favorite blue tick hound had been locked inside the house when it was set on fire.

The house and RV? Mica wouldn’t have bothered to do more than shake his head and collect the insurance—belongings didn’t matter much, and you couldn’t take them with you when you left this world, but he could understand someone goin’ loco over the murder of a four-legged best friend. For that alone, Norman was a piece of shit who deserved to spend the rest of his days in jail. However, since he’d lost his mind and fired up his neighbor’s property, Norman had proven himself to be a bit smarter, evading police and bounty hunters while hiding out in the Absaroka Range. Mica couldn’t guess his intentions, but he suspected Norman thought he could hopscotch through mountains and forests to hide out there for a while until he lost some weight and grew a beard—something to disguise his ugly, memorable features. His mistake had been coming in for a night to shower and sleep in a soft bed.

Mica had tracked him to a motel in Belgrade, Montana. The night manager had just confirmed that someone of Norman’s broad build had indeed rented a room at the end of the building. He’d asked for menus from restaurants that offered delivery; then he’d kept quiet, not budging from his room.

Mica had already walked the perimeter of the building and tried peeking into the room, but the curtains were pulled closed, and the frosted glaze on the bathroom window behind the building didn’t allow him to make out anything other than the fact that there was a light turned on inside the room.

Before he could bust in the door, he had to know that Norman was inside. So, he’d hunkered down in his truck, waiting for his break, hoping Norman ordered food before the last restaurant closed for the night.

He watched through his tinted windows as another SUV and a truck pulled into the lot. He groaned when he saw the female hunter, Marti of naked-body-shop-video fame, enter the motel office. When she’d come out, she’d scanned the parking lot, and her gaze had locked on his vehicle.

So, she knew someone else was on Norman’s trail. Mica snorted. They might have the advantage of more hunters to enter the chase, but he had the better vantage, parked right in front of Norman’s room while they had to park farther down the row.

A small compact sedan entered the lot. It had a lighted sign on top of it, advertising Papa Ralph’s Pizza. So, Norman wasn’t starting his diet anytime soon. The sedan moved slowly down the row of parking spaces, then stopped right behind Mica’s vehicle. A car door slammed, and a lanky teenager ran toward the door, carrying an insulated pizza delivery bag that looked like it held two pizza boxes. Mica partially lowered his driver’s side window so he could listen as he watched the kid knock on the motel room door.

The lights inside doused. The kid stiffened and backed away a step, his head turning side to side like he was unsure of his safety.

The door creaked open, and a hand stuck out of the narrow space with bills clutched in it. The kid reached for the bills and moved back another step as he counted. Then he thrust his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a wallet. I’ve got your change, sir.

Keep it, came the muffled reply. The hand shot out again, and the teen opened the delivery bag and slid out two pizzas, steam rising from the cardboard boxes.

Mica leaned forward, waiting for the door to widen. When it did, Norman P. Rudd’s chubby cheeks, thick eyebrows, and lips were illuminated in the golden light of the motel’s outdoor lighting.

Gotcha, Mica whispered. As the door slammed shut and the kid walked away muttering about weirdos, Mica hit the button on his glove box and pulled his Remington from inside. Then he slipped from his truck and ran for the brick wall beside the motel room door.

Footsteps scraped behind him, and he gritted his teeth, not bothering to turn around because he knew what he’d find, if not precisely whom.

You about tired of us poaching your targets? came a deep-timbered drawl behind him.

Mica cast a glance toward a man whose face was shadowed by his cowboy hat. Just about, he said, keeping his tone even.

He’s yours—unless you need our help.

Just stay back. He had no reason to disbelieve that the bounty hunters wouldn’t poach if he could take Norman into custody on his own. They had a decent reputation among other hunters. Their cable TV show might raise eyebrows and smirks, but Mica had to admit they seemed to know their shit.

He reached out and pounded on the motel room door. Fugitive Recovery Agent! he called out. Norman P. Rudd, unlock the door and step back.

The thuds of feet on a carpet and then the slam of an interior door indicated Norman had likely retreated to the bathroom. Mica wasn’t worried he’d try to escape. The man would never make it through the small window.

He moved swiftly in front of the door and kicked it near the handle. The door didn’t budge, so he kicked it again. This time, the wooden frame around the door gave. With the door tilting now in the opening, he smacked it so it fell to the floor inside the room, then rushed in, heading straight back to the bathroom door.

Behind him, he heard the cowboy say, Hardman, you got eyes on that bathroom window?

Radio static sounded, then, I do. Bastard’s got his shoulders in the opening.

Mica still wasn’t worried. Norman would never get his belly through it. Standing to the side of the bathroom door, he raised his voice. Norman, you got nowhere else to run. How about you get out of that window and open the door? I don’t want to come in after you.

Can’t breathe, came a faint voice from the other side of the door.

Ah, shit, came the voice on the radio.

Then Marti’s dulcet tones followed. Norman, you stupid asshole. What did you think was gonna happen?

Mica’s shoulders dropped. He stepped back and easily kicked in the bathroom door.

Standing in the doorway, he shook his head. Norman’s large body was wedged tightly in the space, his feet dangling above the floor.

Can’t breathe, the man repeated, this time with a hint of panic in his voice.

The cowboy tapped his shoulder. When Mica glared back at him, the other hunter smiled. You got this?

Mica barely suppressed a snarl. A little help would be needed to rescue the man stuffed in the window. He holstered his weapon. If you don’t mind…

The other man grinned. They call me Cowboy, by the way.

Figured that, he said, eyeing the hat. But he already knew who he was due to a particular TV show. I’m Mica Ford.

Cowboy raised his radio. Hardman, go get your toolkit. We’ll have to disassemble that window.

On it.

Think we could just raise his ass and torso and slide him out? Mica asked, frowning.

Can’t breathe, man, Norman said again.

Shallow breaths, dumbass, Marti said from the other side of the window.

"You’re her, Norman whispered. The girl in the video."

Save your breath, she said in a flat tone.

Musta watched it a hundred times.

Do you want me to let you suffocate?

Mica didn’t know why Norman continued to engage with her while her tone lowered, and she bit out her words. Marti Wells was an intimidating woman. Norman had to be lacking some oxygen to his brain.

Cowboy cleared his throat. I’ll go around back and hold him up so he’s not folded over the sill.

Once you’re there, I’ll lift his legs, Mica said. Then he might catch a breath.

Your face is getting mighty red, Marti muttered.

Guess the window wasn’t a smart move, huh? Norman said, then tried to laugh, but it sounded like a sob.

Neither was torching your neighbor’s house, came Marti’s irritated reply.

He had it comin’.

It’s Montana, dumbass. All you had to do was wait for election day, and you could’ve happy-danced all over his yard. Wasn’t like his candidate had any hope in hell.

That’s what my momma said, Norman said mournfully.

And now, you’re going to jail. Didn’t help yourself trying to run.

Mica watched through the top of the divided window as Cowboy moved beneath Norman and propped Norman’s chest on one broad shoulder. Mica hunched down, stuck his shoulder under Norman’s hips, and raised him. I got the heavy end, he muttered.

That better, Norman? Marti asked.

Yeah, but how you gonna get me out.

A drill revved nearby. I got that handled, Hardman’s voice sounded to the side.

Twenty minutes later, with the window disassembled, they slid Norman back into the bathroom. As soon as he melted to the floor, Mica flipped him on his belly and used two sets of cuffs to secure his arms behind his back.

Cowboy appeared beside him.