“No. The job will get done—but from now on, I’m doing it my way.”
I frowned. “What does that mean?”
“There are more creative methods of offing people than tossing them from a balcony or staging a robbery.”
“It has to look like the death was an unfortunate consequence, not the goal.”
“Understood.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Do you want details—or results?”
This guy had attitude with a capital A.
But as long as he earned his money, who cared?
“Fine. Let me know when it’s over and I’ll settle up.”
“Count on it.”
The line went dead.
I stabbed the end button and shoved the phone back into my pocket, quashing the tiny twinge of guilt nipping at my conscience.
Misplaced guilt.
After all, what choice did I have? Given what he knew, letting him live was too much of a risk.
Especially with the dream in sight.
The icy wind picked up, numbing my fingers.
I ought to get back inside. I had places to go, people to meet, things to do.
But I also needed another cigarette.
Bad.
I dug deep into the pocket of my coat and pulled out the pack of unfiltered Camels, along with the Bic. Shook out a coffin nail. Flipped the lighter against the tip. Inhaled slow and deep.
Yes, it was a nasty habit—but there was nothing like a nicotine rush.
And some days, a few stolen moments like these were the only downtime I got.
My regular cell began to vibrate, and I groped for it as I took another drag on the Camel.
Sighed as I glanced at the screen.
This break was going to be short-lived.
I put the cell to my ear. “Yes?”
“Did I catch you in the middle of something?”
“No.” I stubbed out the cigarette on the piece of aluminum foil and folded the whole mess into itself. One of these days soon I’d have to give up this vice. “What’s up?”
“I wanted to confirm the details for this afternoon’s meeting.”
“Okay.”
I half-listened as I headed inside. I already knew the details . . . and the personalities . . . and the stakes. But this underling was just doing her job. Dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s. I couldn’t hold her diligence against her—even if I had bigger issues on my mind.
Like an unfinished job.
But once this loose end was tied up, my goal would be within touching distance.
All I had to do was stay the course, follow the plan—and keep my eye on the prize.
There was blood on the ice.
Rick Jordan jolted to a stop, gaze riveted on the crimson spots blemishing the frosty ground, fingers tightening on the disposable cup of coffee he’d just nuked.
Could his eyes be playing tricks on him in the waning afternoon light of the December afternoon?
He leaned closer.
No.
His 20/20 vision hadn’t failed him.
It was blood.
After all the gore he’d seen, it wasn’t difficult to make a positive ID.
But given the abundant wildlife on the wooded acreage he called home, could it be from an animal?
As he peered at the ruby-colored stains, the hair on the back of his neck snapped to attention—and since metabolic cues had saved his hide on more Night Stalker missions than he cared to remember, ignoring them would be foolish.
The blood was human.
Giving the landscape a thorough, methodical sweep, he set down the cup of java he’d picked up at the café during his supply run to town, balancing it on the uneven ground.
No movement other than the huge flakes that had begun to sift down from the leaden sky.
Apparently the blizzard warning issued this morning had been spot on. Missouri would have a white Christmas.
Nothing wrong with a Currier & Ives–style holiday—except the flakes were rapidly covering the trail of splotches on the three-day-old ice crystals from Tuesday’s sleet storm.
In minutes, they’d be impossible to track.
Continuing to scan his surroundings, he removed the compact Beretta from the concealed carry holster clipped to his belt. No reason to carry when the camp was full of kids and counselors, but wandering around unarmed in winter on 650 isolated, deserted acres?
Not happening.
He might never have needed a gun in the four years he’d called this rural Missouri acreage home, but it was better to risk overkill than being killed.
And while the camp had always been a peaceful refuge for him and the hundreds of kids who visited each season, his goosed adrenaline suggested that was about to change.
Pistol in hand, he followed the uneven trail of blood, only the muffled quack of a duck from the lake a hundred yards away breaking the stillness. No more than a few scarlet spots here and there dotted the frozen surface, but they were sufficient to keep him on course.
The trail ended at the canoe shed, which was closed up tight for the winter season.
Or it had been, before someone picked the padlock.
Shifting into military stealth mode, Rick edged next to the structure and put his ear to the door.
Silence.
Firming his grip on the Beretta, he yanked the wide door open and flattened his back against the wall, out of sight.
More silence.
If anyone was inside, they’d masked their surprise well.
Either that, or they weren’t able to respond.
After thirty soundless seconds ticked by, Rick risked a peek around the edge of the doorframe.
Nothing was amiss.
The racks of canoes looked the same as they had when he’d stacked them for the winter. The paddles were in their brackets, life vests stashed in their bins, fishing rods lined up against the wall like soldiers in formation.
And there was no blood inside, as far as he could tell after flipping on the light and making a quick circuit.
Nor was there anything to suggest someone had taken refuge in the structure.
A frigid gust of air swooped in through the open door, bringing with it an assault of snowflakes—but the Arctic weather alone wasn’t responsible for the shiver that snaked through him.
Where had the injured person gone?
Rick stepped outside again, ducked his head against the polar onslaught, and peered at the ground as he walked the area in a tight grid pattern.
There were no more red blots.
Even the original trail he’d followed had disappeared under a blanket of fresh powder.
Nothing remained to indicate anyone had ventured onto his property.
In fact, if he’d detoured to his computer after arriving home from town instead of indulging in a stroll to the dock while he finished his coffee, he would never have seen the blood. Nor would he have visited the canoe shed until he began prepping for the Saturday spring camps, a task that was weeks away.
Strange timing.
Providential, almost.
Yet what did it matter?
Whoever had broken into the outbuilding had done no harm or stolen anything. There was minimal blood, and the person had seemingly left of their own volition.
The incident might be a bit bizarre, but it wasn’t a life or death situation, like the ones he’d faced in the Middle East.
Tugging up the collar of his coat, Rick returned to the shed and flipped off the light. Lock repairs would have to wait until the storm subsided—but the delay posed little risk. There wasn’t much chance anyone would venture out in this weather to steal his lake equipment.