Curtis Duncan, Bounty Hunter

by Ben Stevens, La Jill Hunt

Genres: African American Urban

Synopsis

Curtis Duncan makes an epic journey through the nation’s capital in pursuit of his most treacherous target yet, finding himself ensnared in a devious conspiracy that could lead to his demise.

In the dangerous underbelly of Washington D.C., Curtis Duncan, “America's Baddest Bounty Hunter,” finds himself summoned to the nation’s capital on a million-dollar bounty that will test his grit and resolve like never before. A notorious Haitian crime boss nicknamed “Johnny Boy” has executed an unthinkable escape from federal custody with the aid of his ruthless loyalists, the Gede Gang, a criminal organization with influence reaching far beyond the city limits.

Johnny Boy’s singular obsession is to exact brutal revenge upon a U.S. Senator and the Attorney General, both of whom betrayed him for their own political ambition and financial gain. As the stakes rapidly escalate, Curtis enlists the aid of his tech-savvy younger cousin, Nevada Duncan, and his childhood best friend, Mya Wynn, one of the city’s top investigative journalists, who has a dogged determination to uncover the truth.

Together, this trio dives deep into the seedy underbelly of the nation’s capital, where power, corruption, and violence intertwine like a hand and glove. Each new lead they uncover unveils another layer of deceit, drawing them deeper into a web of conspiracies that ensnares some of the most influential figures in American politics.

As the hunt for Johnny Boy intensifies, Curtis finds himself framed for a murder, pushing him into a desperate race against time to clear his name and expose the truth before it's too late. With the ruthless Gede Gang closing in and the authorities on his trail, Curtis must take calculated risks as he navigates the treacherous universe of politics, crime, and betrayal.

The stakes reach a fever pitch when Mya becomes caught in the crosshairs, forcing Curtis to make an impossible choice—sacrifice his own life or risk losing the woman who has become more than just his best friend. In a heart-stopping climax amid the shadows of the capital, Curtis must confront his deepest fears and embrace the darkness within to emerge victorious against an enemy who has proven time and again that they will stop at nothing to maintain their stranglehold on power.

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

The bass inside the Sanctuary nightclub in the ATL hit differently. It didn’t just vibrate through the speakers. The music pulsed through my chest, syncing with my heartbeat, letting me know I was alive. Neon lights—electric blue, fiery red, neon green, and bright yellow LED beams—bounced off the polished dance floor, casting vibrant colors across the crowd. I sat in the back, tucked away at a table, sipping a glass of my favorite drink: 1868 Uncle Nearest premium whiskey. The taste was smooth and strong, just like me. Unlike the other clubgoers, I wasn’t there to party. I was there to hunt.

To the rest of the club, I was just another guy taking in the scene, but my eyes were scanning every face that passed by. I was not there for the music, the women, or the overpriced bottle service. I was there for one reason: Carlos Garcia. Carlos was a ghost. The FBI’s Top 10 kind of ghost. A smooth-talking, security-system-hacking, alias-switching son of a bitch who made millions robbing the world’s most luxurious jewelry stores from Fifth Avenue in New York City to boutique shops on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. Every time the feds thought they had him, he disappeared without a trace. But tonight would be different. I could feel it in my soul.

Spotting him in this crowd was like finding a needle in a haystack, but unlike most bounty hunters, I wouldn’t miss. I sat still, ignoring all the sexy-ass women throwing glances my way, and remained patient. That’s the thing about being a hunter: you wait, watch, and strike when the time is right. Then, I saw him, standing over the top balcony in the VIP section, holding a bottle of Moёt with a couple of honey dips by his side. Fresh cut, designer Versace outfit with about $50,000 worth of ice that draped his neck and wrist. I’ve never been a hater, so I had to give him his props. He was moving like a Duncan—but he had no idea that the designer shit he had on was about to be replaced with an orange jumpsuit.

I slowly stood to my feet, crouching like a black panther, making sure my moves were smooth and deliberate. I slipped into the crowd behind him, close enough to watch, but far enough so as not to alarm him. One thing I hate are runners, and I was not about to let this bastard take off on me. But just as I was closing in, our eyes locked, and it was a wrap. A flash of recognition lit up his face, and then it turned to fear. He bolted.

“Fuck!” Cursing under my breath, I took off after him. The club became a blur of bodies, light, and heat as I chased him through the packed dance floor. The reggae-ton blasting from the speakers faded into background noise.

Carlos crashed through the back doors and into the alley behind the club. The scenery instantly shifted from flashing lights to the gritty, dark street and sirens howling in the distance. I spotted him trying to blend in with a group of partygoers outside, but I was already on him. When he turned to run again, it was too late. With one clean shot, I punched him in the jaw. The punch landed so hard, I swear Mike Tyson would’ve been proud. Carlos dropped like a sack of bricks, his body folding into the pavement with a groan. He was down, and while the party inside Sanctuary continued, nobody had a clue what had just gone down outside in the alley. A feeling of quiet satisfaction settled into my chest. My job was done. Another name crossed off the list, another bounty captured.

Ten minutes later, red and blue lights painted the night as cruisers pulled up to the scene. The sound of reggaeton still drifted faintly from the club, clashing with the static of police scanners. I was standing in the midst of it, calm, my heartbeat finally easing back to normal, when Detective Marcia Mitchell walked over with her smooth, brown cinnamon skin and dark eyes that could read you like scripture. She was a beauty who made men trip over their tongues. Her badge gleamed under the streetlight, and even though she was all business, the fire between us was simmering.

“Thanks for your help. You really saved my ass tonight,” she said, her voice low and steady.

I shrugged. “Just doing my job.”

A slow, flirtatious smile crept across her face. “You know, I could use a skilled bounty hunter like you more often.”

“We make a good team,” I told her, spotting exactly what I was looking for: the spark, the sexual tension that was right there in front of me, lingering in the air.

She stepped closer, eyes locked on mine, her smile bright enough to cut through a heavy cloud of fog. “We do indeed,” she said. Then, she whispered softly so only I could hear, “But for now, let’s keep it professional.”

My disappointment flickered for a second, then I replied with a cool demeanor, “I respect that. I’m always a professional, Detective.”

She slowly turned and walked back toward the crime scene, her silhouette glowing like a goddess under the flashing lights. I watched her go, my eyes taking in every curve of her body, knowing that our time was coming.

Being Curtis Duncan, “America’s Baddest Bounty Hunter,” came with weight. My name carried respect and fear in the streets. I never backed down. Not from danger. Not from threats. Not from anybody. My father, Larry Duncan, made sure I understood one thing growing up in Waycross, Georgia: Duncans don’t run from shit. That mindset was instilled in me from damn near birth, and I live by that code to this day.

Café Milano always smelled like money and secrets. It was one of the few places in Georgetown where folks like me could talk without worrying about who was at the next table. The lighting was just dim enough to hide both wrinkles and wrongdoing, and the soft jazz floating through the air wasn’t ambience. It was a cover that drowned out all the dirty little confessions whispered over crab cakes and champagne.

I sat in my usual corner booth, posture perfect like always. To the world, I was every bit the polished politician they’d elected year after year. Charcoal suit tailored sharp enough to cut glass, tie straight, and pocket square just right. Every morning, I dressed for success. I knew the look mattered, especially in D.C., where your image walks into a room ten seconds before you do. My smile never faltered. My handshake always hit with just the right amount of pressure, and it always instilled confidence. People trusted me, believed in me. Hell, half of them would take a bullet for me. To the world, I was the definition of integrity. But none of that had anything to do with who I really was.

Some of my opponents called me greedy. Others said I would do anything to hold onto power. They weren’t wrong. But where they saw desperation, I saw discipline. I’d survived because I don’t let idealism get in the way of execution. I knew the game, and I played it better than most. That’s why I surrounded myself with men like Scott Bowens. Strong men. Men who understood the cost of power.

“This place always makes me nervous,” Bowens muttered, stirring sugar into his espresso like it was laced with explosives. “Too many ears. Too many eyes.”

“That’s exactly why I picked it,” I said with a smile, leaning back in the booth. “People only hear what they want to believe in a place like this.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, but he didn’t. Scott was a dangerous man, but so was I.

Bowens wasn’t sitting across from me because of his résumé. He got where he was by moving like a ghost in a warzone: quiet, deadly, and never leaving fingerprints. He looked like a public servant on the outside, but behind the scenes, the man was straight-up lethal. Half his rise came from secret deals and pressure applied in just the right places. The other half, from people mysteriously losing their careers—or their lives—when they crossed him.

A waitress in pearls and red lipstick brought over a basket of warm bread and kept it moving. No name tag. No small talk. Another reason I loved this place. Discretion was the house special. We didn’t say anything until she disappeared.

“He’s getting sloppy,” Bowens said, voice low and tight.

“Sloppy don’t even begin to cover it.” I leaned in, resting my elbows on the white linen table. “He’s out here moving like he’s bulletproof. Flashy cars. Big parties. Talking loose to people who don’t even have clearance to know his damn name.”

“He thinks he’s untouchable.”

“And that,” I said, lifting my wine glass just a little, “makes him a problem.”

We didn’t say Johnny Boy’s name out loud. Not here. That name carried weight, and in D.C., walls have ears and favors come with high price tags. Jonathan Boykins, known in certain circles as Johnny Boy, was a Haitian kingpin who’d built an empire off drugs, blackmail, money laundering, and pure intimidation. He was dangerous, no doubt. He was also profitable. For a while, he’d made both of us a whole lot of money. But now, he was a threat to everything we’d built.

“Tomorrow’s hearing,” Bowens said, barely moving his lips, “we’ve got everything in place. Judge is solid. Prosecutor’s ready. Media’s been fed.”

“All we need is the fall,” I added.

We both knew what “fall” really meant. Johnny Boy was walking into that courtroom thinking we had his back. What he didn’t know was that we were the ones pulling the rug out from under him. The moment that verdict dropped, he was either going behind bars for life or dying before he ever made it to his cell.

The waitress came back, refilled our water glasses. I flashed her a smile that could win an election and then watched her walk away.

Bowens shifted in his seat. “You ever feel bad, Rich?”

“Bad about what?”

“About setting up a man we did business with? Made money with?”

I didn’t blink. “You ever see a lion apologize to the gazelle?”

He laughed, not because it was funny, but because that’s what we did. We laughed to keep the truth from tasting too bitter.

“The second that verdict hits,” I said, lowering my voice, “he’s done. Expendable. Just another body in the dirt.”

We didn’t mention the real goal, not out loud. That wasn’t for today’s discussion. That was the end game.

“Tomorrow,” I said, raising my glass.

Bowens clinked his lightly. “To power.”

I smiled. “To survival.”

In this town, they were one and the same. Johnny Boy was done. He just didn’t know it yet. And when the dust cleared, everything he built would belong to us. That’s how it works in Washington. You build empires and burn bridges. And if you’re lucky, you live long enough to collect what’s owed. But luck runs out. Tomorrow, Johnny Boy’s would, too.

I never show up unannounced. Not at work or in life. I’m a planner by nature: steady, disciplined, precise. But with Curtis, all that structure goes out the window. I stood at his door, my pulse throbbing slowly in my ears. My fingers hovered for a beat before I knocked, two firm taps. While waiting quietly, I could hear the subtle click of movement. I knew that sound. Curtis never opened his door without checking the peephole first, never without his gun within reach. Years of bounty hunting had taught him to keep his instincts sharp and his trust minimal. In that way, we were very much alike.

I heard the low slide of a lock, and then the deadbolt disengaged. The door creaked open just slightly at first. Our eyes met, and the familiar sense of recognition melted away the tension that had been building in my chest as I waited at the door. He looked me over slowly, deliberately, his gaze like a hand sliding across every inch of me. His gray sweats hung from his hips like temptation itself. Standing in the doorway, barefoot and shirtless, the man looked like he was carved from stone, and I hated how easy it was for me to lose my control with him.

“Detective Mitchell,” he said, his lips curving into a lazy grin. “This a social call?”

“Something like that.”

I didn’t wait for an invitation. Instead, I stepped inside, welcomed by the warmth of his penthouse. His place always impressed me, no matter how many times I’d been there. Marble floors that gleamed like glass, curated art pieces along the walls, and those massive floor-to-ceiling windows that showed off the Atlanta skyline like it was his own personal painting. Every inch of the space reflected who he was: refined, elegant, and quietly powerful.

Curtis closed the door behind me as I reached for the belt of my black Tom Ford trench coat, unknotting it slowly, letting the silk slide apart. His eyes focused on the newly exposed lingerie I wore: a deep wine-red lace that clung to every curve and dipped just low enough to leave no room for imagination. His stare was wide and hungry.

“You always know how to make an entrance,” he murmured.

“I do my best,” I whispered back.

The coat slipped from my shoulders in one fluid motion, falling to my feet. I stepped toward him, purposeful, one hand pressing lightly against his bare chest as I leaned in. My lips made their way to the tender spot just beneath his jaw. His skin was warm and smooth, the kind of skin you don’t just touch, you memorize.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” I whispered.

I felt his hardness against me. His eyes were now shut, confirming that my words had landed exactly how I wanted them to. Then came the moment we both knew was inevitable. Our mouths met in a kiss that was slow at first, exploratory, like we were reminding ourselves of one another. But it didn’t last long. Passion emerged between us. He pulled me backward, guiding me further into the living room, his hands caressing my body as we made our way to the center of the room. Our connection always started like this: slow, tender, then fast and familiar. His lips moved to my neck, sucking and biting softly at the same time, causing even more heat between us.

Then, he lifted me effortlessly as I wrapped my legs around him. As he carried me toward the bedroom, the city skyline provided all the light we needed. All I could focus on was him: his scent, his grip, the way his heartbeat synced in rhythm with mine. When we made it into his room, he laid me down like I was precious and rare, but the hunger in his eyes said something else entirely. Gentle was the last thing he was going to be. His fingers ran their way from my collarbone to my chest, making my already hardened nipples even more erect. In one motion, he ripped off the lace garment I was wearing, leaving me butt-ass naked, minus the Guiseppe heels on my feet, an overpriced birthday gift to myself purchased for moments like this.

“Mmmmm.” I moaned, enjoying the teasing of his tongue while his hands softly caressed between my legs. My warm wetness welcomed his fingers.

“That didn’t take long.” He smiled, teasing me with both his handsome smile and talented fingertips.

Before I knew it, he was on his knees, his tongue replacing his fingers. The man had an oral skillset like no one else, and it didn’t take long before my cat was purring. I pulled him back onto the bed, straddling him, watching the smirk vanish as I leaned down to kiss him again. It was my turn to reciprocate, and I loved making him feel as good as he made me. Then, the journey became one of mutual satisfaction. Every move we made, every touch, was a language only we understood, a rhythm only we knew.

Curtis’s hands roamed across my body, memorizing me all over again, and my fingertips slid along the ridges of muscle in his back. His strength was overwhelming, but so was his gentleness. That contradiction, that duality, was what drew me in every time, and even though I knew better, I let myself fall once again.

“Cum for me,” Curtis whispered, sensing that I was on the verge of no return.

“Not yet,” I whimpered, enjoying the pulsating rhythm of his thick manhood inside of me.

“Fine, I’ll make you.” He moaned, then pushed my legs even wider and rubbed my clit.

“Noooooo,” I cried out as my body gave in to the orgasm I’d been fighting to hold onto. I opened my eyes to see the playful-ass grin on his face, a sign that once again, he’d won. But it didn’t take long for him to arrive at the same destination.

“Oh, shit.” He shuddered and groaned, his climax turning me on all over again.

The hours passed in a blur of tangled sheets and whispered names—moans swallowed by kisses. Skin on skin, we devoured each other, and when it was over, our bodies lay still, and the fire between us dulled to a slow burn.

I curled up against his chest, tracing lazy circles over his skin. This was the part that always got to me: the quiet aftermath. He held me like I was his and there was no one else, kissing my forehead like he cared. Like maybe I mattered more than I let myself believe. But I knew better. For two years, we’d been caught in this pattern, this push and pull of desire and denial. It started professionally. My department had hired Curtis to help bring in the worst of the worst, fugitives nobody else could catch. He always delivered. He was ruthless when necessary, but efficient and focused; sexy, bold, and aggressive in an appealing way—all the things I enjoyed in a man but rarely found. They were things that should’ve been red flags to stay the fuck away from him, but our chemistry was undeniable from day one. The first time we crossed paths, it was supposed to be all business, but by the third time we worked together, that line got blurred and then shattered as we crossed it, falling into bed like we’d been made for one another. But it never turned into anything more. Not officially.

I knew I wasn’t the only woman in his life. I wasn’t naive enough to not know that women surrounded Curtis like planets to the moon. But, when I was with him and it was just us, he made me feel like I was the only one that mattered, and sometimes I allowed myself to believe it, knowing that I shouldn’t. The facts were that I was accomplished, respected, and worked hard for everything I’d earned in Atlanta PD. My reputation was one built on integrity, and my record was clean. I fought harder and smarter than most of the men I worked with. But, when it came to Curtis Duncan, I was as weak as they come. I hated the fact that I wanted more from him than what I was able to have.

As I pressed my face against his chest, inhaling his scent, something just felt like home, though I knew it wasn’t. He didn’t speak. He never did afterward. He just kissed the top of my head, holding me like it meant something. I wasn’t sure if it did, or if it was just routine for us. And in that quiet, floating space between sleep and reality, I told myself what I always do.

I’m okay with this. I’m not catching feelings. Being friends with benefits is enough.

Deep down, I hated that I wanted him, not just for the night but for mornings, conversations, PDA in public. I wanted a future with him, and I wasn’t sure if that was something he’d ever give me. So, I settled for being held in his arms while falling asleep, dreaming about the what-ifs that would never be.

I lay sprawled across my king-sized bed, the morning sun beaming through the blinds, casting tiger-like stripes across my chest. The scent of Marcia’s perfume lingered on the pillow beside me, a tantalizing reminder of the night before. My muscles ached pleasantly, a testament to our shared passion.

The digital clock on the nightstand blinked 6:12 AM. For most, it was early; for me, it was practically midday. Yet, I wasn’t in a rush. The room bore the aftermath of our rendezvous: clothes strewn about, the air thick with the remnants of desire. Marcia cuddled beside me, her long, dark hair cascading over the pillow like a waterfall. The sheet had slipped down, revealing the smooth curve of her back. I reached out, tracing a finger along her spine. Coming out of her sleep, she started to get up to begin her day.

“Where you think you’re going?” I murmured, my voice husky with sleep as I flirtatiously pulled her back down.

She turned to face me, a playful smile tugging at her lips. “Some of us have real jobs with real hours, Mr. Duncan.”

I chuckled, pulling her closer. “The Atlanta PD can survive without their star detective for another hour.”

She laughed, and the sound was like music to my ears. “Must’ve missed that memo.”

We lay in comfortable silence, the world outside forgotten. But then, she shifted, propping herself up on one elbow, her face now serious.

“Actually,” she began, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”

I raised an eyebrow, sensing the shift in mood. “Talk? Sounds deep for 6:18 in the morning.”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Maybe it is deep.”

I sighed, sitting up. “Can’t we wait until after coffee? You know I’m not a talker before my caffeine fix.”

She shook her head. “It’s been almost two years, Curtis. I think it’s time we define what this is.”

I frowned. “We’ve got a good thing going, don’t we? Great chemistry, dope convo, no drama, amazing sex. Why mess with a good thing?”

She looked at me, her gaze piercing. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

I tilted my head, saying, “What?”

“The way you summed us up, like we’re a tight operation, smooth and no strings attached. You handle relationships like your bounties, Curtis. You scope it out, plan your moves, make the catch, and then … you bounce before it gets real.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but she held up a hand. “You’re slick at what you do because you see patterns. But do you ever notice your own? How you keep . . .