Straight Shooter Read online

  STRAIGHT SHOOTER

  Samantha Keith

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. Except for use in a review, the reproduction or use of this work in any part is forbidden without the express written permission of the author.

  Straight Shooter © 2020 Samantha Keith

  Kobo Edition

  ISBN: 978-1-7770799-4-9

  Cover design by Covers by Combs

  Formatting by BB eBooks

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements and Dedications

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  More Books by Samantha Keith

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements and Dedications

  Jesse, without your support—and push—I’d probably not get any writing done and be way less productive. You taught me that there’s always room for improvement, and that’s something I keep in mind with my writing, and every day life. You’re an incredible father and role model. I’m so grateful to have you.

  Skylar and Isla, it’s tough balancing motherhood and writing. While I strive to write every day, I’m grateful you two make me slow down and savor these sweet, busy years that you need me the most. I love you with all my heart.

  Mom, thank you for instilling in me the idea that I can do anything. I don’t know what I would do without you. I love that you read all of my books, sometimes over and over, and for all the extra help you provide so I can cram words onto these pages.

  Danielle, I’ll probably mention you in every book I write because to be honest, no one sees the amount of work that goes into each novel. I’m so fortunate to have a critique partner that doubles as my bestie. We make pretty awesome magic when we put our heads together.

  This book is for my readers! I hope you love Peyton and Rhett’s banter and heat. These two were awesome to have in my head for the months I wrote this book—I miss them already.

  Happy reading!

  All my best,

  Samantha Keith

  CHAPTER 1

  Peyton wove through the supermodel-like women near the bar. Her knife, nestled in its holster, brushed against the inside of her thigh. If it weren’t for the tight-fitting black dress she’d worn to fit in, she might have been able to sneak her gun past the guards. Beneath her feet, the yacht belonging to Florida Senator Donatello Moretti, swayed on the dock off Key West. She picked up a second glass of champagne—she’d taken only one sip of the first glass before dumping the rest overboard—and continued through the crowd.

  Thank goodness for Vicky, the stripper who’d been hired as an escort for the party, or Peyton probably wouldn’t have made it on the boat in the first place. Vicky had snuck a wet suit and snorkeling gear into her handbag and hidden the items in the janitor’s closet behind the furnace. Once Peyton had what she needed, she’d suit up and swim off. No one would be any the wiser.

  She moved near the rear of the yacht and watched a man in a dark suit and blue shirt step on board. His rigid stride set him apart from the carefree guests.

  Cop. Definitely the cop on Moretti’s payroll.

  “Jeremiah. I’m so glad you could make it.” The Florida senator’s jovial voice boomed over the party. Jeremiah extended his hand as Moretti approached, and their palms clapped together in a firm handshake. “Come sit. As you can see, I’ve got world-class entertainment.” He gestured to the women seated on the sofa he’d just vacated.

  Peyton inched her way closer. There were a ton of other women to hold Moretti’s attention. The last thing she needed was to get on his radar and have him think he could buy her. That’d really fuck things up.

  Jeremiah beamed, accepted a flute of champagne from one of the servers, and motioned Moretti to the railing. The yacht pulled away from the dock and sailed toward the dusky sky. Peyton dropped into the black leather couch and pretended to engage in conversation with the three escorts and another filthy politician.

  If she didn’t get what she needed and get off the damn boat soon, she might just have to use the knife. Keeping one eye on the two men at the railing, she dug her hand into a bowl of trail mix and popped the salty snack in her mouth.

  Jeremiah took a swig from his glass. The cop appeared to be no older than she was—thirty, tops. His light-brown hair fell away from his face in sun-kissed waves. Almost too pretty to be a cop. But Max alerted her that the cop would be delivering the top-secret information tonight. This had to be him.

  Sure enough, Jeremiah fished inside his suit-jacket pocket and passed a stiff white envelope to Moretti.

  She straightened in her seat. Yes!

  Moretti’s stance became rigid. He took the envelope and slipped it in his pocket, keeping his hand tucked into the material. Then he nodded to Jeremiah, crossed the deck, and disappeared down the stairs. God, if only she could follow him and just take the envelope. That would sure as hell make her job a lot easier. Instead, she’d have to figure out where he’d hidden it before she could get off the ship.

  Peyton excused herself from the conversation, got to her feet, and moved toward the staircase Moretti had just disappeared down. A guard stood at the top of the stairs. He crossed one hand over the other in front of his body and stared at her as she approached. He wore a black tux, and a cord dangled behind his ear.

  She smiled. “Is the restroom this way?”

  Hard brown eyes settled into crinkled, overly tanned skin. “Down the hall. Don’t go past the sign.”

  She shrugged. “Of course.” Which told her that was exactly where she needed to go—Moretti’s cabin. She deposited her glass on a nearby table and made her way down the hallway he’d gestured toward. The watchful guard’s hot stare burned her back—maybe it was the backless dress having that effect on him and not the fact that he suspected she was about to steal something valuable from his boss.

  As she rounded the corner, she pulled her phone from her purse and checked the time: 8:02 p.m. In a few hours, the yacht would return to port to drop off the guests. Then it would continue on a cruise of the coast.

  Her high heels clicked on the polished wood floors. The breeze off the ocean tickled her skin, cooling it, and the scent of rain touched her nostrils. She scanned the horizon’s red and orange hues. Dark clouds hovered in the east—if a storm came, the party would be shut down early. Her stare focused on the long, dimly lit hallway. A single-standing sign read “No guests beyond this point.” She slipped into the bathroom, leaving the door open a crack, and opened the text from Max.

  You need to find a small piece of paper with the name Jenny Carter and the location she’s being kept at written on it. They’re really breathing down my neck on this. They want the location ASAP or my ass is on the line. Keep me posted.

  This job was outside her usual scope of work, especially given the pressure. What was so urgent about Jenny’s location? But she had to help Max. Back when he lived in San Diego, he’d helped her numerous times on short notice, filling in
for people who’d dropped out last minute or whenever she needed his expertise. He always pulled through for her. And he never put pressure on her unless it was warranted. Whoever was hanging this over his head had to be dangerous. But the less she knew, the better. Besides, the pay was good and her pockets were getting tight.

  Since her best friend, Dani Metcalf, had started her event-planning business, Peyton had been forced to find jobs on her own. Swiping diamonds, gold, and cash from San Diego’s criminals kept her in the lap of luxury, but getting jobs the last few months had been rough. So when Max, an old colleague who’d moved from San Diego to Key West last year, had asked her to work a job for a hundred grand, she’d jumped at the opportunity.

  “Moretti only allows female escorts and strippers on his yacht, along with men he’s very close to,” Max had explained. “So I need you to do it.” He’d put her in touch with Vicky, one of Moretti’s regular strippers, who’d promised to escort Peyton on board.

  Peyton rubbed her fingers together and typed a reply to Max.

  On board. I’ll let you know when I’m finished.

  The scuff of dress shoes over the hardwood floor made her blood pressure spike. She tucked her phone back into her purse and hovered at the door. Keeping one hand on the handle, she brought her eye to the crack. Moretti breezed by the restroom and out of view. His footsteps echoed on the floor as he returned to the main area. The crowd boomed louder as he rejoined the party, and another champagne bottle popped. The bass rattled the floor beneath her feet as she pushed open the door. Walking on the balls of her high heels, Peyton rounded the wall and skirted past the sign. The hallway opened up into another large seating area. Out of sight from the party, she swung her gaze around the room. Her heart beat erratically against her breastbone as she turned into a small inlet that held double doors—the master suite. The scent of cigars hung in the air. She tried the handle: locked. It had to be Moretti’s cabin.

  She dropped to her knee, opened her purse, and pulled out her lockpick tools. God, please grant me the speed to be swift. If she didn’t get back to the party soon, the guard might come looking for her.

  Then she’d be screwed.

  She inserted the metal pick and worked the second one into the hole. Earth, Wind & Fire’s bumping tune “September” blocked out the sound of blood pumping through her head. She flicked the tools, but the lock resisted. She growled, took a breath, and retried. She had to calm down and—

  “Freeze!”

  She whirled around, and the tools clattered to the floor. Her stomach slammed into her chest. Sweat collected at the back of her neck, and her skin prickled.

  No, no, no! They’d caught her. She was going to prison for sure—no one got away with trying to steal from a senator.

  The overly tanned guard stood ten feet away, a gun trained on her head. Her kneecaps screamed as they dug into the unrelenting floor, and her body trembled as she lifted her hands in the air. Cotton filled her mouth.

  She forced down the firecracker of panic that threatened to burst through her chest. She cleared her throat and brought her fingertips to her earlobe. “Oh, good. Maybe you can help me. The diamond popped out of my earring and it rolled under this door. I found these tools at the bar and thought I could slip inside and grab it.” If the guard came close enough, she could grab the knife at her thigh.

  “Stand up.” He barreled across the floor and stopped in front of her. He shot his hand out and snagged a handful of her hair. Pain tore through her scalp as he hauled her to her feet.

  She wouldn’t go down without a fight. Adrenaline lit her veins. She dove under her dress for the knife, yanked it from the holster, and sliced at her attacker’s waist. He surged backward, and the freshly sharpened blade licked through the material of his jacket.

  He hissed and brought the butt of the gun down on her forearm. Her fingers snapped open and icy pain shot up and down her nerve endings. The knife bounced on the floor at her feet. She lunged for it but his grip on her hair tightened, bringing her to a stop.

  He shoved her chest to the locked door. His weight crushed her ribs, preventing her from taking so much as a breath. Her cheek smooshed against the cool, smooth wood and she closed her eyes. There was no getting out of this.

  “You’re going to want to get down here, Beanie,” he said to someone on the phone. “And bring the boss.”

  * * *

  FBI agent Rhett Callahan made his way from the bar to Moretti’s parlor on the main floor. Moretti had cancelled the party and had just dropped off the disappointed guests—not that he gave a shit. He assumed everyone was just pissed because the party had ended before the free cocaine started flowing. The last thing he’d wanted was to sit there and watch sleazy bastards crawl all over half-naked women and cheat on their wives. Donatello Moretti was a sonofabitch, so when Rhett had been asked to leave San Diego and work undercover as his bodyguard, he’d been happy to take the job.

  He rapped his knuckles on the mahogany wood.

  “Come in.”

  Rhett pressed the winged handle and the door glided open. He stepped into the room and placed his hands behind his back. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  The aging man stood at the window overlooking the quickly darkening sky, a glass of brandy in his hand. Moretti’s suit jacket hung over his desk chair, and his loosened tie dangled awkwardly over the bulging belly that he normally kept better hidden.

  “Shut the door,” he said, lifting one finger off the glass.

  Rhett did as asked and returned to position. He’d been undercover for only six weeks, but the bastard was sharp as a tack and liked his security details to be seen and not heard, and always on point.

  Rhett held his tongue and kept his gaze on Moretti. White hair streaked the senator’s beard, worked up his sideburns, and weaved through the ebony strands on his head. A large onyx ring took up the middle finger of his right hand. He wore a wedding band on his left hand. A gold chain peeked out from under the collar of his shirt, another thing that was usually hidden from the public eye.

  “Did you enjoy yourself up there?”

  “I did, sir. It was a wonderful party.” If dryness tainted his voice, there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

  “Good. We’ve got a problem.”

  Rhett’s hand jerked over his wrist at the small of his back and unease tickled his throat. A problem wasn’t a problem as long as Moretti hadn’t discovered Rhett was an undercover FBI agent. Any other “problem” he’d handle fine and dandy. “I wondered why things ended early.”

  “Yes. Well not to worry—my schedule is still the same. We’ll just wait out the storm that’s coming and be on our way when it clears. I believe the captain said we should set sail again after midnight.”

  “Good to hear. What’s the problem?”

  Moretti dropped the glass to the table. “You’re a good detail, you know that?”

  The compliment made a muscle in Rhett’s jaw jump. He rolled his tongue over the roof of his mouth. “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’ve got a solid head on your shoulders and handle sticky situations with clarity. I like having that on my team—I need that on my team. Especially right now.” The last sentence rang through the air.

  Questions burned through Rhett’s mind. Jesus, was Moretti going to confide in him about the scandal? A stripper, Raquel Stevens, had allegedly died at the hands of Donatello’s nephew, Andre Moretti, and the story had kicked up quite the sandstorm of drama in the tabloids. Thanks to his uncle, Andre was out on bail pending trial. Since it was a scandal the Morettis couldn’t afford, the payoffs had already started. Once Rhett uncovered whose pockets Moretti had greased in hopes of getting his nephew acquitted, the papier-mâché walls the senator had created would bust the fuck open, and everyone involved would land in prison.

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Good. I want you to take the lead on my security team. Beanie’s a shithead. He needs someone to keep him in line. It’ll come with perks,
of course,” he said, waving his hand.

  “I’m happy to accept, Mr. Moretti. What’s the problem you’d like taken care of?” If it was another murdered stripper, he’d be in over his head. A dead body would force him to call the feds immediately.

  Moretti shoved his hands in his pockets. “Someone got on board to steal from me. Either information, cash . . . hell, it could be anything.” He swung his gaze to Rhett, and his stony gray eyes were as chilling as the storm building on the horizon. “I need you to find out why.”

  “You want me to interrogate?” Shit. He had plenty of experience in that area, but if someone else was here to get dirt on Moretti, it could blow his case.

  “Yeah. Beanie’s working on it now, but I’m not keen on his . . . methods. I don’t need another reason for the press to look at me. Got it?”

  Rhett grunted. “Yes, sir.” Beanie, Moretti’s longtime bodyguard, made Rhett’s skin crawl. He didn’t know a lot about the man, but Rhett’s debriefing before arriving on the case had included a background on Beanie Mathews. Several charges of rape, aggravated assault, and possession of illegal drugs were reasons enough for Rhett to want to throat-punch him every time he had to look at his stupid face.

  “Where’s Beanie holding him?”

  Moretti jangled something in his pocket. “It’s a her. Top deck.”

  Rhett’s heart rate slowed and his breath stalled in his throat. “Her?” He couldn’t, wouldn’t, hurt a fucking woman. Jesus Christ, what had he gotten into?

  “Yeah, a woman. Find out who hired her.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Blood trickled through Peyton’s lashes, marring her vision. She blinked but didn’t dare move to wipe it away. The cut from the guard’s gold ring throbbed above her eyebrow. She stretched her toes toward the ground but couldn’t reach it. Her wrists ached in the bounds that suspended her from the yacht’s ceiling.

  Six guards sat on the furniture that only an hour before had held high-paid strippers and Moretti and his cronies. Many of the guards leered at her. The torn neckline of her dress left one nipple exposed, and its hem was hiked up on her thighs, leaving most of her legs naked.