Storm Warning

by Michele Hauf

  Jason lifted his chin. “You have a reason to be suspicious?”

  She shrugged. “Shouldn’t any woman staying alone in a cabin in the middle of nowhere be cautious?”

  He nodded, but again, his Spidey senses tingled. There was something she wasn’t telling him.

  The phone in Jason’s pocket jangled. He reluctantly pulled his hand from Yvette’s and checked the message. It was from Ryan Bay. He’d gotten a fingerprint hit on their prisoner. It was not a match to James Smith, line chef at the Duluth Perkins.

  “I need to head in to the station,” he said to Yvette.

  “The investigation?”

  “Yes. Sorry.” He stood. “I hate to eat and run. And to leave things...well...”

  She took his hand and squeezed it. “You know where to find me. Go. Do your job. Text me later if you can.”

  “That I will.”

  He almost leaned forward, but then Jason realized it would be for a kiss and—it didn’t feel quite right. She’d been angry with him for the way he’d gone about asking her questions—a bit too angry for someone with nothing to hide. And he wasn’t even sure what he wanted right now. To interrogate her or to romance her? Best to dial down the need for tasting her lips that he got every time he looked at those lush ruby reds. He had a job to do. He didn’t need distractions.

  Damn. Why did those blue eyes have to be so stunning? They possessed powers. He could feel them weakening his resolve as well as his legs. If he didn’t move now, he’d sit and stay for a while.

  Jason moved to the door and got dressed, backing out the front door with a silly wave as he did so. When he stood out on the snowy stoop and the chill clenched in his lungs, only then did he blow out a breath and shake his head.

  “What’s she doing to your head, man?”

  * * *

  RYAN FLAGGED DOWN Jason as he was driving toward his house. He pulled over and rolled down the truck window. Ryan leaned out the window of his white SUV. “I’m headed to Marjorie’s house for supper. Wasn’t sure when you’d be back, but I left the perp’s outstanding arrests report on your desk.”

  “You got a digital file?” Jason asked.

  “Sure. I can text it to you now.” The man punched a few buttons on his phone, and a minute later Jason’s phone rang with a message. “Perp’s got some deep stats. Connects him to the Minnesota mafia.”

  Jason lifted a brow. The Minnesota mafia wasn’t an official term; it was what those in the know used because it was easier to say than “the group of half a dozen families who joined with the infamous Duluth gang, the MG12, and were involved all over the state in everything from theft to money laundering, gun running and human trafficking.”

  And Jason had one of their ilk in his jail?

  “I’m going to read up on them after I eat. Apparently Marjorie’s husband, Hank, makes a mean roast beef and dumplings,” Bay offered, as he was already starting to roll up his window. “It’s cold out here! Stay warm, Cash!”

  And with that, the man headed south toward the dispatcher’s house. Hank did have a talent—Jason never passed up an invite for dumplings.

  Now he could only sit there in the idling truck, window still down and cold air gushing in, as he scrolled through the report.

  “I’ll be,” he muttered after he’d read it all. “Mafia. Really?”

  The report named their James Smith as one Herve Charley, a Texas native who had no current known residence. Last three reports connected him to the Minnesota mafia. As a hit man. He specialized in close elimination, meaning he preferred to use his hands and not a weapon.

  Jason swore. Yvette had managed to avoid harm from a hit man? Possibly the very same hit man who had taken out Yvette Pearson, a woman who bore a striking resemblance to Yvette LaSalle. What the hell was going on?

  The last time he’d been in such proximity to a woman capable of handling her own against a dangerous predator had been in Italy, two years earlier...

  Jason lay on the rooftop, peering through the sight of the .338 Lapua sniper rifle. He could hit a target a mile away with ease. Today the target was closer, less than a third of a mile in range. He’d tracked the suspect’s movements from the Accademia hotel down the street.

  He made a minute adjustment to the rear sight. In forty seconds he would be in position for a kill shot.

  It was a windless day, and fluffy off-white clouds dampened the sun. A bird chirped from a nearby tin flue that capped an air vent jutting up from the roof tiles. Perfect conditions to make the shot.

  Behind him on the roof he heard Charleze click off on a phone call and say something to him. He ignored her. He was in the zone. No interruptions. She should know better. Thirty-five seconds...

  “Jason?”

  She had to know he could not chat with her now.

  “It’s off,” she said.

  He heard that. He didn’t want to hear it. But he processed those two words and grimaced. Twenty-eight seconds...

  “Jason Cash, did you hear me? Interpol wants the suspect alive.”

  Not according to his orders from the CIA. And he didn’t answer to anyone but the Central Intelligence Agency. Charleze may have been his liaison here in Verona, Italy, helping him to navigate the ins and outs of this foreign land, but she was not his boss. And she didn’t call the shots. Unless they were in bed. And...that had happened, too.

  Sixteen seconds. He wouldn’t increase pressure on the trigger until the eight-second mark. And he always shot on empty lungs. He began the exhale. The increase in oxygen to his eyes would help his visual acuity.

  “Jason.” Her hand slapped over his trigger hand.

  The suspect wobbled out of sight. Jason lost the mark. He reacted, gripping Charleze by the shirt and pulling her down, nose to nose with him. “Do you know what you’ve done?”

  “We want him alive,” she repeated succinctly.

  He squeezed the shirt fabric and shook his head. “We? Who we? The target wasn’t yours to have. My orders were to take him out. And now you’ve spoiled that.”

  He rolled to his back, knowing he could set up and take another shot, but not without causing a commotion on the ground. He’d chosen the perfect kill shot, a place where the suspect would fall next to a brick building, out of the public’s view.

  Had she known that all along? Had she been stringing him along? Using him to get to the target?

  He hated her for that. Wanted to grip her by the shoulders and force the truth out of her. But he couldn’t do that until he got the full story from both his boss and hers.

  “You’re a sore loser,” Charleze suddenly said. She stood straight, looming over his prone position on the rooftop. The floaty white pants she wore listed against his forearm. The touch was mutinously soft. “He’s one of our own, Cash. The FSB wants him alive to prosecute for crimes in our own country.”

  “Your own? The FSB is Russian federal security. You’re with Interpol.”

  “Most of the time.” Had red lips ever smiled with such evil relish? “I do enjoy this vacation in Italy. A breath of fresh air, if you ask me. Not to mention the sex with an American agent.”

  A double agent? Jason blew out a heavy breath. She was a honeypot. “You cost me the hit. He’s killed dozens in the US. The CIA had jurisdiction on this case.”

  “If that’s how you want to play it. I’ve done my job of babysitting you. Ciao!”

  She turned on her sexy red heels and strutted across the rooftop to the door, walking inside and closing it behind her.

  Babysitting him?

  Jason turned to his side and swore.

  He’d been played. She’d used him to track the target. She’d probably been relaying his position to her team while he’d been lining up the shot. Idiot! How had he allowed this to happen?

  Because he’d slept with her and had let some long blond hair and p
outy red lips sway his better judgment.

  His boss would have his ass for screwing up this one. Rightfully so. The target had been on a most-wanted list. His death had been imperative.

  Now Jason pounded a fist on the steering wheel as he still sat idling on Main Street. He’d never run after Charleze. He’d lain there on the rooftop, stunned, his blood draining from his extremities as he’d processed the shock of it all. He should have gone after her. Should have...

  Would have...

  Could have...

  There hadn’t been a thing he could have done to change the outcome after he’d missed the shot. He’d known that then; he knew that now. And he had been punished for that screwup. But he’d always tried not to look at his employment in Frost Falls as punishment but rather, a new opportunity. And it had grown into a job he could be proud of. He loved the people who lived here. Sure, he wished for more real police work. Procedural stuff like the homicide he currently had on his docket. But what else to expect in a small town?

  And now they would take that away from him, too.

  Chapter Nine

  The next morning, Jason hopped out of his truck behind the station house and closed the door. The patrol car, which Alex drove, was parked next to his.

  The wind whipped at his face, and he smiled. Despite the ghosts of CIA past that had threatened to haunt him, he’d woken bright and shiny this morning, singing in the shower, and after rereading the report on Charley, happier than a clam that he had him behind bars. He’d nabbed a mafia hit man. That should prove to those who had the inclination to keep an eye on him that he was worthy of a second chance. He seriously wanted to maintain his position as chief of police here in Frost Falls. It was small potatoes, sure, but it was a job he’d made his own.

  He’d dressed quickly and headed for the station. The storm had arrived early. He looked forward to it, because in its wake the forecasted two to three feet of snow would invite him to plow through it going well over one hundred on the snowmobile. If he had a clear, open road to race along, he’d push the machine beyond 150 miles per hour. Grippin’ it and rippin’ it!

  His phone jingled with the second reminder tone that played ten minutes after an initial message. Must have missed the first one. Pulling it out from inside his coat, he read the one-word text: Hurry! It was from Alex.

  Jason crossed the lot in a race and pulled open the basement door. He called down to the cells, “Alex?”

  He descended the stairs quickly. Half a bloody footprint stamped the bottom step. And there before an open cell door lay Alex, sprawled on the floor. His face bled, and he was out cold. His fingers were still wrapped about his cell phone. No sign of the prisoner.

  Jason lunged to the floor and shook the officer.

  The man roused and groaned, touching what Jason figured was likely a broken nose. It was then Jason noticed the bruise marks about his neck.

  Alex coughed and gripped his throat. “Sorry, Cash. I had to open the cell to push in the food. The Moose packaged it up in a box and bag, and I didn’t have a plate to slide through the meal slot, so...”

  “It’s all right, Alex. He tried to choke you?”

  Alex nodded. “He was strong. Think I saw my life flash before my eyes. I can’t believe I let him get the better of me.”

  “That’s a pattern,” Jason said.

  “What?”

  Jason tapped Alex’s throat where the skin was already turning deep purple. “The girl in the ditch. Yvette LaSalle was almost strangled. And now you. They’re all connected. Have to be.”

  “Last night...I asked him how long he’d been in town.” Alex gasped and winced, touching his nose tenderly. “You know, trying to tease out more information from him.”

  “And?”

  Alex clutched Jason’s sleeve. “He said...since Saturday morning.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, and then I asked if he’d visited The Moose that night, and he grinned like the Joker. I could feel his evil slide over my skin like some kind of nasty weeds at the bottom of a lake. Creepy.”

  “He was there,” Jason guessed. “I bet he was watching Yvette Pearson, then he followed her.”

  Wincing and easing his fingers over his neck, Alex asked, “How long have I been out?”

  “The text rang through ten minutes ago. I only just noticed it. I gotta get out there now. Pick up his trail. I’ll call Marjorie and have her come over to fix you up!”

  Dialing Yvette’s number while he stomped up the stairs, out around the side of the building and into the station, Jason swore when his call went to messages. He left a quick one: Lock your doors. Don’t answer any knocks unless it’s me.

  He shoved the phone in his pocket, realizing that had been cryptic and would freak out a person. He’d not take more than a few minutes here before heading out to pick up the suspect’s trail. He dialed Marjorie and told her he’d found Alex in bad shape. She could be over in less than five minutes, because she was pulling out her laundry at Olson’s Oasis.

  A few minutes later, Marjorie stomped into the station house and set a laundry basket aside on the floor.

  “Marjorie, I need you to put out an APB on the suspect Herve Charley. Using the false name James Smith. Put it out across the Boundary Waters, St. Louis County and the rest of the state. The BCA hasn’t reported in yet this morning. Give Bay a call and ring Robert Lane to come in and give us backup.”

  The county frequently spread their law enforcement employees from town to town when help was needed. Small towns like Frost Falls generally never required more than two at any given time. But Jason had a potential murderer on the loose, and with Alex injured, he couldn’t do this himself. Nor would he want to risk screwing up the case because he was too proud to ask for help.

  “Check your messages!” Marjorie said as he paced his office.

  “Will do. I’m heading out to take a quick run through town, but—” He knew the suspect could only be moving in one direction. “On second thought, I’m headed for the Birch Bower cabin to check on Yvette.”

  “The dead woman?”

  “No, Miss LaSalle. The French chick renting the Birch Bower cabin.”

  “Oh, right. He attacked her yesterday.”

  “And he might be going back for a second attempt.”

  “Take the four-by-four with the snow chains on the wheels,” Marjorie offered.

  “Nope. The cat will get me there faster, and if the snow drifts, I’ll have to dig the truck out. Won’t have to do that with the snowmobile.”

  Marjorie sighed. “Fine. But take one minute to listen to your messages before you leave. There’s a weird one on there from Interpol asking about Emily.”

  “Emily?”

  “Something like that. Just listen to it.”

  Jason eyed the blinking red light on the desk phone, indicating he had a message. She had told him to listen to his messages yesterday, but he’d gotten distracted. A weird one?

  He pushed the button on the phone and listened to the male voice, which had a French accent similar to Yvette’s.

  “I am Jacques Patron, assistant director with Interpol in Lyon, France. This is urgent. My employee Amelie Desauliniers is staying in your town. I’ve been unable to reach her. She is in danger. You must—”

  A crash sounded in the background on the phone line. Jason gripped the edge of the desk.

  “Protect her!” shouted over the phone.

  The next sound was too familiar to Jason. A gun fired. And then an abrupt shuffle was followed by static.

  Had the caller just been shot? Not just. This message had been on his phone for over a day. Jason winced. What the hell?

  Jason called out, “Marjorie, when you’re finished nursing Alex, I need you to trace the call that was on my messages. I think it’s recorded another murder.”

  “Uff da, are you
serious? I thought it sounded odd. And who is Emily?”

  “Amelie. And I don’t know.”

  Jason rubbed his jaw. This new development only added to the mystery. He needed to call Interpol, verify that the caller was indeed who he said he was and then find out if he were dead or alive. He’d asked about Amelie? An employee of his.

  He had a foreign spy hiding out in Frost Falls?

  And there was a strange Frenchwoman staying out at the Birch Bower cabin who seemed oddly capable of defending herself and yet protective of personal details.

  Could Yvette LaSalle be undercover? Using a different name? Or was there another Frenchwoman hiding out in the town?

  “I have to get out there.” Jason checked the Glock holstered at his hip with a clasp over the solid shape, then zipped up his coat. “Sorry you had to come in when you should be home with Hank preparing to ride out the storm. Call me when you’ve got a trace on that call. And...have Bay call Interpol and verify a Jacques Patron is assistant director.”

  “Sure thing, boss.” She bent to scribble that information on a piece of paper. “You check in with me once you’re out at the Birch Bower place. I don’t want to learn you’ve gotten stuck in a snowbank.”

  “You know I’m smarter than that!” Jason pulled the door shut behind him. The wind blasted him so fiercely, he took a step back to counter his sudden loss of balance.

  Straddling the snowmobile, he fired it up. Pulling on the helmet stopped the pricks of icy snow crystals from lashing at his eyes and face. The storm had picked up. Soon enough, the winds would be vertical. The music blasted inside his helmet, and he turned it off. He wanted to hear when he got a call from dispatch.

  Or if he got a plea-for-help call from Yvette.

  Pulling up to the gas station, Jason ran out and into the store. He’d had the SUV towed after Alex had given it a once-over, finding no evidence. It was in a Duluth impound lot by now. And of course, it was stolen, belonging to a man he’d yet to learn was safe or even alive.

  “Any new rentals this morning, Rusty?”

  The old man shook his head. He had a coat on and keys in hand. He stood up straighter at the sight of Jason’s urgency. “What’s up, Cash?”