He couldn’t help but notice Carhart looked like someone had pissed all over his Wheaties. And from the way he was glowering at Clayne, he was giving him all the credit. Foster—the fed who’d been sent to fetch them—leaned over to fill him in since it was obvious Carhart sure as hell wasn’t going to do it. “The Hunter’s called several times over the last hour or so demanding to speak with you.” He glanced at Danica. “I tried your cell phone repeatedly, but it kept going to voice mail.” The man kept his voice low, as if he was afraid Carhart might overhear. Clayne didn’t think he was wrong. Carhart seemed like one of those vindictive pricks who’d go after the low guy on the totem pole just because he was mad at Clayne. “What did he say?” Danica asked, not bothering to explain the reason she hadn’t answered the phone. Clayne suspected it had something to do with not wanting to round up any more of Carhart’s suspects.
