Troublemaker Read Free

water. Want to come up for a drink?” The invitation was the same as his wife’s, but somehow lacked the underlying sincerity.
    Morgan wasn’t even remotely tempted. Making polite small talk wasn’t his strong suit, even if he hadn’t had the prospect of fishing pulling at him. “Thanks, but I’m heading to one of my fishing spots. When I saw the congresswoman, I just came over to say hello.” He pulled the trolling motor out of the water and leaned over to put his hand on the side of the cabin cruiser and push himself away, then settled himself in the driver’s seat. “Y’all have a good day.”
    â€œYou too,” Congresswoman Kingsley said and turned away from the railing with a smile and a wave.
    Morgan turned the ignition key, his big motor roared to life, and he idled away from the cabin cruiser until he was far enough away that his wake wouldn’t violently rock their boat. He lifted his head into the wind and let the combination of water and leisure time pull him in.
    It was dark, the other side of nine-thirty, when he pulled into his parking slot at the condo. It had been late when he’d docked the Shark, then he’d cleaned his tackle and locked it away before heading home. He’d also made a brief stop at a grocery to cover his basic food needs; he hooked the plastic bags on his fingers and dragged them with him as he slid out of the seat. A click of the remote locked the truck.
    The condos were at least thirty years old, six rows of two-storybuildings made of brick and pebbled concrete. He supposed the effect was supposed to be modern and uncluttered—and maybe it had been thirty years ago, but now it was nothing more than butt-ugly. Each ground-floor unit, like his, had its own little patio, while the upper-story condos had balconies that struck him as fairly useless but that were used a lot during the summer for grilling and such.
    The plastic bags rustled and banged against his left leg with every step, reminding him of why he hated buying groceries. After the fact, he always thought that he should throw a backpack in his truck and leave it there for hauling in what few groceries he bought, but he wasn’t home often enough for it to be a habit so he’d forget about the backpack. He’d also almost forgotten he didn’t have any coffee left, but the grocery’s sign had caught his eye and he’d whipped into the parking lot without time to signal, resulting in a few indignant horn blasts. Couldn’t be helped; he had to have coffee.
    A concrete support pillar and some tall shrubbery partially blocked his view of the condo building, something that grated but the homeowners’ association wasn’t willing to do away with part of its mature landscaping and shady trees just because he didn’t like it. He couldn’t explain that the greenery provided points of ambush because civilians simply didn’t get shit like that, so he dealt with it. It wasn’t as if he had a lot to worry about; the crime rate in these units was very low, and was in fact a selling point for the young families who made up the majority of residents.
    Still—habits were a bitch, but he couldn’t ignore half a lifetime of training. To keep from walking around a blind corner, he swung wide into the street the way he always did so he was approaching straight on; there wasn’t a lot of traffic in the condo development, and he didn’t often have to wait until a car passed.
    But even with a direct approach, he still didn’t like it. Sometimes, such as now, he liked it less than at other times, and he couldn’t have said why. He didn’t have to; instinct was what it was.
    He stopped in his tracks.
    Sometimes . . . such as now .
    The sudden surge of awareness was like an electric shock, sending all of his senses into hyperalert. He instinctively moved his right hand to the pistol snugged into the holster at the small of