Nine Lives

New York Times bestselling author Saron Sala has written more than sixty-five books that regularly hit all the bestseller lists. Her emotionally charged stories are about ordinary people whose experiences are often larger than life.

She was born and raised in rural Oklahoma and still calls the state her home. Being with her family is her ultimate joy, although her life has changed drastically from when she made her first sale to the way it is now. Sharon claims it is her greatest satisfaction to create her stories, then share them with people who love to read.

Also by Sharon Sala

THE CHOSEN

MIMOSA GROVE

THE PERFECT LIE

WHITE MOUNTAIN

STORM WARNING

THE RETURN

BLOODLINES

THE SURVIVORS

SHARON SALA

NINE LIVES

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For Bobby

You taught me how to enjoy life to the fullest.

Now I’m having to learn how to live it

without you.

One

It was December in Dallas, Texas.

Cat Dupree hated winter and all that came with it. The weather made for miserable stakeouts, although stakeouts were a part of a bounty hunter’s life. The time of year only added to the chip she carried on her shoulder and reminded her of all she’d lost.

When she was six, she and her mother had been shopping for groceries when they’d been hit by a drunk driver. It had killed her mother instantly and put Cat in the hospital for days. When she was finally dismissed, her mother’s funeral was over, and she and her father were on their own.

Over the years, she learned to adjust, and she and her father grew closer. Then, just before her thirteenth birthday, and only days before she and her father were planning to leave on vacation, a man with a tattooed face broke into their house, stabbed her father and cut her throat, leaving her unable to scream as she watched him die.

After that, the Texas Social Services system finished the raising of Catherine Dupree, during which time she’d acquired the nickname Cat.

Being a bounty hunter had been a job she’d thought about during those long years. What better way to find her father’s killer than to work in his world? At eighteen, she’d aged out of the system, then, two months later, gone to work for a bail-bondsman named Art Ball.

Art had been taken with the dark-haired, leggy teenager, and hired her to file and deliver papers to the courthouse, even though he hadn’t needed the extra help. But, he would say later, it was the smartest thing he’d ever done. By the time she turned twenty-one, she had a black belt in Karate, was licensed to carry a firearm and had gone through several kinds of schooling to learn private investigation techniques, as well as the ins and outs of bringing home bail jumpers.

Also during that time, she began accumulating mug shots of perps with tattoos on their faces in hopes of finding her father’s killer. She’d been looking for him ever since, and often thought it strange that a man with such markings was so difficult to find. Logically, one would have assumed that a man with the equivalent of a road map on his face should stand out in any crowd.

Every time she left to go after someone who’d jumped bail, Art would tell her to be careful. He would add to that by reminding her that she didn’t have nine lives left like the cats who hung out in the alley behind the bail bond office, because she’d already used up two.

The ensuing years and her cold-blooded determination had given her a hard-nosed and enviable reputation. The fact that she was tall and, in many men’s eyes, very beautiful didn’t matter to her. She’d grown up fast, with a whiskey-rough voice and a bad attitude. She had a fine set of boobs, which she didn’t consider an asset. They were, however, nicely distracting to the men she went after. Most of the time they were looking elsewhere when she threw the first punch.

Such, she was certain, was going to be the case today for bail jumper Nelson Brownlee. Following up on a tip, Cat had located Brownlee at an old apartment building in Fort Worth. Now all she had to do was take him down and bring him in.

Nelson Brownlee was a four-time loser with a penchant for armed robbery. He’d promised himself the last time he’d been released that he was going to move back to Michigan, but Nelson had never been good at keeping promises, even to himself. All the way to the Quick Stop, he’d been thinking something didn’t feel right. Still, he’d ignored his instincts, robbed the store and then gotten himself caught on his way out the door by an off-duty cop. He figured it had served him right and never dreamed he would be able to bond out. But he had. He’d taken it as a sign from God to change his ways.

However, he and God had never been on very good speaking terms, and instead of making an appearance in court on his due date, he’d jumped bail. For the past week he’d been in hiding without money, hanging out at an old girlfriend’s apartment in Fort Worth.

He’d been here six days, and was sick and tired of the scent of boiled cabbage and bratwurst. Even the free sex from the old girlfriend was losing appeal. So when the knock sounded on the door, he ignored his better judgment and went to answer it.

Cat’s fingertips were numb from the cold, but persistence had paid off. Frostbite was a minor hazard of the job compared to the satisfaction of having a healthy bank account. Her badge was in plain sight, so there would be no mistaking her purpose when she confronted her perp. She checked for the set of handcuffs she tucked under the waistband in the back of her jeans, felt to make sure her handgun was in the holster beneath her coat, then ran her fingers along the taser in her coat pocket as she started up the stairs. Brownlee’s woman had an apartment on the sixth floor, and in a building this old, an elevator did not come with the deal.

Cat’s nose wrinkled as she moved from floor to floor. The compilation of scents coming from beneath the doors was staggering. She could smell everything from a backed-up toilet to boiled cabbage—a disgusting combination. It didn’t, however, deter her from her goal, which was bringing Art’s bail jumper back.

She wasn’t even breathing hard when she reached the sixth floor. Her steps were sure as she strode down the hall, pausing only briefly before doubling her fist and pounding on the door of apartment 609. She re-checked the location of her gun and taser, then braced herself.

Nelson Brownlee opened the door.

“Well hell,” he muttered, and tried to slam it shut.

The door caught on Cat’s boot as she shoved her foot in the doorway, then swung inward as she pushed her way in.

“Now, Nelson,” Cat drawled, as she grabbed him by the collar and slammed him belly first up against the wall. “That’s no way to say hello. It’s cold outside. The least you could do was offer me a hot cup of coffee.”

“Like hell!” Nelson yelled, and bowed himself backward, then spun and took a swing at her.

She took a quick step sideways, dodging his fist. As she did, she came off one foot and kicked upward, landing a neat but lethal blow to his chin. He went down like a felled ox. She quickly handcuffed him, then grabbed him under the arms and was about to drag him out the door when she heard someone scream.

She dropped Nelson’s arms and ran out of the apartment. Smoke was filling the stairwell from above, drifting downward in thick deadly fingers.

“Oh, Lord,” she muttered, and glanced back inside the apartment. Brownlee was still out.

She couldn’t leave without him, but he weighed a good hundred pounds more than she did. This wasn’t good. She glanced down the hall again, grabbed her cell phone and quickly dialed 911. After giving the dispatcher the address of the building, she ran back to Brownlee. Already the smoke was so thick on the sixth floor that it was becoming difficult to breathe. Cat raced into the kitchen, grabbed a dish towel from the cabinet, doused it with water, then tied it around her face. The scent clinging to the towel was not enhanced by getting it wet, and sucking it up her nostrils came close to making her gag. Still, it was better to gag than burn.

Smoke was filling the apartment as Cat ran back to the living room and pulled Nelson into the hall. His head bumped hard as she dragged him over the threshold, but it couldn’t be helped. Better a headache than dying.

“Come on, Brownlee, wake up!” Cat cried, but Brownlee wasn’t talking.

Cursing beneath her breath, she got him as far as the landing, then bent over, and with what she would later consider a burst of adrenaline spurred by an overwhelming fear, pulled him up and over her shoulder in a fireman’s carry and started down the stairs, staggering slightly under the weight.

Cat hadn’t counted on the difficulty of balancing dead weight on a decline. Every time she took a step down, Brownlee’s head bumped against her back, keeping her slightly off balance. But the heat behind them and the smoke swirling around their heads was all the reminder she needed to keep moving. They’d cleared the fifth floor and were just past the fourth floor landing when Cat sensed someone on the stairs in front of her. Her instincts proved right as she stepped down onto the heel of a boot.

Staggering to keep from losing her load, she grabbed the railing with one hand and the back pocket of Brownlee’s jeans with the other.

“Move faster or get over! I’m coming through!” she yelled.

Wilson McKay was, what the waitress at his favorite diner called, “a looker.” He was four inches over six feet, with a linebacker’s build. His hair style wasn’t a style at all, but a buzz-cut that was always in the process of growing out. He wore one small gold hoop in his ear, and denim or leather with equal distinction. His nose had been broken twice, and there was a small scar beneath his right eye. Every scar, bump and line on his face was a testament to the hard knocks of his life.

He had turned forty yesterday, and a bunch of his friends had thrown a big party for him down at the bar across the street from his bail bond office. The beer had been flowing freely. They’d even sprung for a day-old cake from the deli section of one of the big grocery stores across town. Their gift to Wilson had been Wanelle, the prettiest hooker on their side of the city, which was a title Wanelle held proudly, even if her claim to fame came from a real long stretch of the truth.

Still, Wanelle had all her own teeth and clear skin, and she was almost pretty when she laughed. Wilson knew her slightly. He’d seen her around Ft. Worth from time to time, but buying a woman had never been his style. He’d felt trapped when Wanelle had been presented to him, especially since his buddies had tied a big red bow around her neck. Turning her down would have been a serious social faux pas to his friends and to Wanelle. So, rather than hurt everyone’s feelings, Wilson had graciously accepted, and they’d spent the night in her fifth floor apartment, only to be awakened by the scent of smoke.

Wilson was just coming out of the bathroom when he saw tiny gray fingers of smoke coming from under the front door and curling upward.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered, and ran to the door. He put a hand on the wood to check for heat, and when it still felt cool, took a chance and opened it.

Smoke was pouring down the stairwell from above. The moment he saw it, he slammed the door shut and spun away, grabbing his shirt from the back of a chair as he ran toward the bedroom.

“Wanelle! Wanelle! Wake up, honey. The building is on fire! We’ve got to get out of here.”

Wanelle rolled over. Her hair was smashed to her head on one side, and her makeup was smeared beneath her eyes. She looked a bit like raccoon road kill.

“Wha’sa matter? What did you say?”

He grabbed the clothes she’d taken off last night and threw them on the bed.

“Get dressed. Fast! The building is on fire.”

“Oh Jesus! Oh Lord!” she screamed, and began to cry.

“Save the prayers for later,” Wilson said, as he pulled her out of bed. “Here. Put these on.”

She looked at the panties and bra as if she’d never seen them before.

“Uh… I need to pee before—”

“Make it fast,” Wilson said.

Wanelle ran for the bathroom. He gave her less than thirty seconds before he was knocking on the door.

“Come on. You’ve got to come now.”

Wanelle opened the door, wild-eyed and muttering beneath her breath. Wilson began dressing her as if she were a child, then handed her the boots she’d been wearing and grabbed her coat.

“Now, honey! We’ve got to go now!” he said, as she thrust her arms into her coat.

She was right behind him when he opened the door. The smoke that had been in the hall began filling her apartment. As soon as she saw it, she started to scream. If Wilson hadn’t grabbed her arm, she would have bolted back into the apartment and closed the door.

“No you don’t,” he said.

She fought back, stronger than he would have believed her capable of being. The smoke was getting thicker, which meant their time-line to safety was getting shorter.

“Sorry, honey, but you leave me no choice.”

Without hesitation, he doubled up his fist and popped her on the chin. She went out like a light. He caught her before she fell and threw her over his shoulder, then ran out into the hall. Seconds later, he was descending the stairs with the dead weight of her body swinging behind his back, the smoke continuing to thicken, seriously dimming his view.

Wilson pulled the collar of his turtle-neck sweater up over his nose like a mask, while every now and then, Wanelle would moan. Wilson knew she was inhaling too much smoke, but there was nothing he could do.

They were just past the fourth floor landing when someone stepped on the heel of his boot. Before he could react, he heard a woman yelling at him. From the panic in her voice, he had no doubt that she meant what she said. He turned abruptly, saw little more than her shadow through the smoke, then hefted Wanelle to a more secure position.

“Right in front of you and going down!” he yelled, and started taking the stairs two at a time.

Even though the muscles in Cat’s neck and shoulders were trembling from Nelson Brownlee’s weight, she never gave in or slowed. A few steps more and she began hearing footsteps coming down the stairs behind her. Fearing someone would run into her and send both her and Brownlee tumbling, she yelled out a warning.

“Traffic on the stairs! Traffic on the stairs!”

The footsteps faltered, then kept on coming, but with less speed. They all passed the third floor landing, then the second, and when they finally hit the first floor and ran out into the street, firemen were running past them into the building.

Wanelle was beginning to come to as Wilson handed her off to some EMTs. He mentioned smoke inhalation and that he’d knocked her out when she’d started to panic.

The medics nodded their understanding as they transferred her to a stretcher and carried her toward a waiting ambulance.

Wilson’s legs were shaking as he watched them take Wanelle away, knowing she would be all right. Then curiosity made him look for the woman who’d been behind him on the stairs.

At first he thought she was already lost in the gathering crowd, and then he caught a glimpse of a tall, dark-haired woman carrying a man over her shoulder. He’d had no idea she’d been carrying someone. Added to that was the fact that she had not handed the man she was carrying over to the medics scattered around. For whatever reason, she was headed toward an SUV parked on the opposite side of the street. What surprised him most was that the man she was carrying appeared to be twice her weight.

“Damn, a real superwoman,” he muttered, then decided to follow her.

He started across the street at a jog, dodging hoses and firemen, coughing a couple of times as fresh air slowly cycled through his smoke-filled lungs. She had already reached her vehicle and was in the process of stuffing the man in the back seat when he arrived.

“Hey, lady, do you—?”

Cat’s hand flew beneath her coat, shoving it back as she reached for her handgun.

“Back off,” she said.

Wilson stopped, his eyes narrowing as he caught a glimpse of her weapon, as well as some kind of badge fastened to her belt. He held up his hands in a gesture of submission.

“Easy…”

“I’m never easy,” she snapped.

Wilson stifled a smile. He would have bet money on that.

It was all he could do not to stare, but she was truly a sight. There were sooty streaks on her cheeks, her eyes were red-rimmed; and from the number of times she was blinking, they were probably burning. But her legs were long, her hips almost boy-slim, and she looked ready to fight. Black hair hung way below her shoulders, and there was a small drop of blood on the curve of her lower lip. If it wasn’t for the muscles she quite obviously had, and the impressive size of her breasts, he would have called her skinny.

“Was it you who called out to me on the stairs?” he asked.

“I yelled at somebody,” she said. “Sorry if I hurt your feelings.”

He grinned. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay,” he said, then reached out and wiped away the blood drop with the pad of his thumb.

Cat swatted at his hand. “I’m fine,” she snapped, then swiped the back of her hand across her mouth, as if to wipe away his touch.

Wilson stifled a second smile. Pure hellcat. He eyed the handcuffs on Brownlee’s wrists, then pointed.

“What happened…lost the key in the middle of your game?”

Cat’s eyes narrowed angrily. He was accusing her of sex games with the piece of shit in the back seat of her car. She kept telling herself to ignore him all the while she was opening her mouth.

“He’s a bail jumper,” she said. “I’m taking him in. You want to make something of it?”

Wilson eyed her closer. The only female skip tracer he knew of in Texas was Cat Dupree, but he’d never met her.

“Okay, okay, lady. Don’t get all hot and bothered. It looks like we’re in the same business.” He pulled out a badge and ID.

“My name is Wilson McKay.”

“Of McKay’s Bail Bonds,” Cat said, well aware of her boss’s competition. “Good for you,” she said, then heard noise in the back seat of her car and realized Brownlee was beginning to come to.

Nelson opened his eyes, felt the cold steel around his wrists and kicked. The car door hit Cat on the backside before she could turn and sent her flying forward, right into Wilson McKay’s arms.

It was an automatic reaction that made Wilson grab her to keep her from falling, but he turned her loose on purpose when she came up swinging and lit into the man in the back seat of her car.

“You sorry bastard! I should have let you fry,” she growled, then tasered Brownlee as he was trying to get out.

He screamed with pain as he fell backward in the back seat.

“No more! No more!” he begged.

Cat was still glaring as she yanked him upright and shoved his legs inside the car. She fastened his seat belt and then slammed the door shut so hard that it rattled the glass. Before she got inside the SUV, she pulled a baton from beneath her seat and whacked it on the top of the seat about six inches from where Nelson was sitting.

“Do you see this, Brownlee?”

“Yes, oh God, yes, I see it, I see it. Just don’t hit me no more.”

“Then stay where you’re put,” she snapped. “I’m not the one who robbed a Quick Stop, and I’m not the one who jumped bail, so being mad at me isn’t going to solve your damn problem. You screwed up and walked out on a man who did you a favor. He bonded you out, and this is how you repay him?”

Brownlee shuddered as he rode the wave of electric shock continuing to ripple through his body.

“I know. I know. I didn’t mean to hurt you none. I just woke up disoriented and all. I’d never—”

“Shut up, Nelson. You’re lying, and we both know it. You already tried to cold-cock me. Now sit back and relax. We’re going for a ride.”

Cat got into her car, locked the door and buckled up without giving Wilson McKay a second look.

But Wilson was looking. He knew his suspicions had been right. He’d just met the infamous Cat Dupree. This was the first time he’d seen her up close and personal, and he was surprised by how truly beautiful she was. He was, however, more than a little bit put out that she hadn’t even given him a second look.

It took him a few moments to realize that the fine spray of water from the fire hoses was drifting down on him, and that it was freezing to the outer surface of his leather coat.

“Well, damn,” he muttered, and started to walk away when he saw something glittering in a growing puddle.

He bent down and picked it up, then realized it was a small silver charm in the shape of a cat. He glanced back up at Cat Dupree’s disappearing vehicle and grinned as he dropped the charm in his pocket. Now he had an excuse to see her again.

He shivered, watching the firemen as they continued to spray water into the building and thinking how close they’d all come to dying. Finally he stuffed his hands in his pockets and headed down the street to where he’d parked his car the night before. As much as he wanted to go home, take a hot shower and crawl into bed, good manners meant he should go to the hospital and make sure Wanelle was okay.

Cat’s lungs were still burning when she turned Brownlee over to the authorities.

The ride from Fort Worth to Dallas had given him plenty of time to consider what had just happened. Granted, Cat Dupree had tracked him down to take him in. That had been inevitable. But she’d also saved his life. How was he supposed to stay pissed when she’d gone and done something like that? He went back to lockup without comment, unwilling to look Cat in the face.

Cat couldn’t have cared less what life-changing behaviors Brownlee might be considering. He’d been nothing but a job to her, and now it was over. She just wanted a bath and about twelve straight hours of sleep.

The traffic from police headquarters to her apartment was worse than usual, thanks to the freezing rain that had started to fall. By the time she unlocked the door, her hands were shaking and her stomach was doing somersaults, reminding her that she had yet to eat a decent meal today.

She tossed her car keys in a bowl on the hall table and started to hang her coat up in the closet, then wrinkled her nose when she realized it smelled of smoke. She tossed it on the floor near the door as a reminder to take it to the cleaners when she next went out, then began undressing on her way to the bath. She stopped in the kitchen to get a bottle of water and noticed that the message light was blinking on her answering machine. She took a big drink of water and put off the task of checking the messages in favor of a hot shower.

She was standing in front of the mirror over the sink when she realized something was missing. The tiny links on the silver chain around her neck were familiar enough, but the small cat charm that had been on it was gone.

“Oh no,” Cat said, and then quickly traced the length of the chain, praying that the charm had somehow shifted to the back of her neck. It was the only thing she had left from her life before Social Services, and now it was gone. She thought back over the past few hours. The stakeout, the fire, the altercation with Nelson Brownlee. Even if she could retrace her steps, a good portion of them had gone up in smoke. She had to accept that the charm was gone.

A hard, burning knot filled the back of her throat as she swiftly turned away from the mirror. The pain was so sharp she couldn’t bring herself to look at the wound it surely left on her face.