by Eva Hudson
Ingrid Skyberg Box Set
Books 1-4
Eva Hudson
Contents
Fresh Doubt
Previous Edition
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Kill Plan
Previous Edition
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Deep Hurt
Previous Edition
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Shoot First
Previous Edition
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
BELOW ZERO
FREE SKYBERG NOVELLA
Eva Hudson
Rights Info
Fresh Doubt
An Ingrid Skyberg Mystery
INKUBATOR BOOKS
Previously published under the same title by Two Pies Press (2014)
Prologue
Dear Lauren,
They make you write letters here. One to your parents. One to mine. One to my future self, that sort of thing. Apparently, the fact you’re dead is supposed to free me to write the truth about my feelings. The doctor running the rehabilitation programme has fewer psychology qualifications than me—fewer than you, in fact—so it’s fun to play with his head. And let’s face it, he’s the only one who’s going to read this, isn’t he?
So how do I feel, Lauren? I believe they want me to say I’m sorry, or remorseful, or sad. But the truth is I’m angry. Angry with you for putting me here. If I’d never met you, I honestly think I could have been happy. But you had to come along and ruin everything.
At the beginning it was fun, I’ll admit. It was just the two of us against the world, remember? We had this crazy, intense connection but when the spell was broken you couldn’t keep your mouth shut, could you? I warned you to keep it to yourself, to hold your tongue, but you didn’t, did you? So what happened was… inevitable.
There’s something that really bothers me. Can you guess what it is? It was that look you gave me when you were lying on the floor. You were still alive then—I checked your pulse—and there was this moment when you seemed to see me and recognize what was happening. I want to know if that look––that narrowing of your pupils, that tightening of your features—was that you h
ating me, or thanking me?
I picture that scene often. Your head at an odd angle, the gash in your skull starting to glisten. God, the sound you made when you fell. It was almost metallic, like the crunching of a car when it goes into the back of another. Although that wasn’t the last sound you made, was it? There was that wheezing rasp as the air left your lungs.
I don’t know if you care, but I thought you should know I didn’t hate you when I killed you. Like I said at the time, I only wanted to shut you up, to put an end to things. But by God I hate you now. You’ve caused me so much trouble.
This is such a ridiculous exercise. It’s not like you’re going to write back is it? And I how am I supposed to sign off a letter like this? Best wishes? That’s all for now? Rest in peace? Ah, I know…
See you soon,
Prisoner A2441AC
1
“Somebody stop him!” the woman shouted. “Please, someone!”
Special Agent Ingrid Skyberg saw it all happen in slow motion as she ran past on her early morning run along the Thames river path. A moment to shove the woman sideways, another to drag the straps of the bag from her shoulder, then a second to snatch and scoop the bag into his arms. The young Caucasian male sped away, barging into a crowd of commuters near the London Eye. The woman fell hard onto the concrete path, her mouth forming a wide silent O as she hit the ground.
Ingrid had just been getting into her stride, feeling her muscles warm, absorbing the faint heat of the early morning April sun on her face. She pulled up fast—the man was escaping behind her—turned on a dime and ran back under Jubilee Bridge toward the Royal Festival Hall. She accelerated through the crowd.
“Stop!” she shouted, pumping her arms faster. “FBI!” Then she remembered herself, threw a glance over her shoulder and yelled at the mugging victim to call 9-1-1. The woman looked at Ingrid blankly. “I mean nine nine nine, call nine nine nine!”
Ingrid turned face front again and scanned a sea of disgruntled faces to find the thief.
“Get out of my way!” she yelled, but most had headphones in and didn’t hear. She scrutinized the edge of the crowd and spotted him again, his shaven head appearing bright white above the throng of commuters. She memorized his description for later. White, male, five eleven, one-seventy pounds, bald head, no more than twenty years of age. And fast. Really fast. Her cell phone vibrated, tingling against her bicep. Whoever it was would have to wait.
The crowd cleaved in front of her, opening a central channel. Ingrid pumped her arms harder and dragged air down into her burning lungs. Thirty yards ahead, the perp darted quickly right, pushing a tourist out of his way before roaring up a concrete staircase to the terrace above.
Ingrid dug deep, gaining on him with every stride.
“Stop! Police!” she yelled.
She took the first four steps in a single leap, drove the balls of her feet hard into the concrete and propelled herself upward. A bottle of water hurtled down toward her. She ducked left, and the half liter of Evian bounced harmlessly off her shoulder.
“Son of a…”
Ingrid reached the top of the steps and located her quarry as he crossed an expanse of concrete paving. This part of the Southbank was home to an arts complex built in brutal, bare concrete, with walkways and staircases connecting concert halls, galleries and theaters on several stories. Ingrid knew the center well: she met other parkour athletes here once a week for training sessions, jumping from level to level to find new and inventive ways to get from A to B. She smiled: she hadn’t been this exhilarated since her last Bureau fitness assessment. She’d been training for something like this for years. She was going to enjoy herself.
He ran toward a narrow passage leading between two buildings, discarding items from the woman’s bag as he went, briefly disappearing from sight. Ingrid ran after him, spotting him as he headed for another concrete spiral of steps down to street level. She lengthened her stride, reached for the waist-height wall and vaulted over it, twisting and holding onto the other side before dropping down to the flight below. He appeared at the bottom of the staircase and showed no sign of flagging. Ingrid jumped over the wall and dropped down, landing a few feet behind him.
“Fuck off, bitch.”
Ingrid rolled to disperse the impact and sprang up to give chase. He reached into the handbag, fetching a pink leather wallet then discarding the bag as he ran. It caught under Ingrid’s foot. Her ankle twisted, and she stumbled, but she kept on running. Her phone buzzed again. She was five yards back now. He ran into a graffiti-covered undercroft where skateboarders practised their jumps. They zigzagged around each other, not paying any attention to her or the thief. The noise of the wheels on the hard standing echoed off the walls.
He darted between the boarders. Ingrid was within lunging distance now. She ran up one of the ramps and launched herself up into the air, cycling her legs before bringing her right foot down on the back of his calf, sending his face crashing into the hard concrete below and forcing the pink wallet out of his grasp.
She rolled him over; a huge graze covered his face from chin to ear. The skateboarders gathered round. One picked up the wallet.
“Who the fuck are you?” the thief managed.
“Ingrid Skyberg,” she said, breathing heavily. “Special Agent Ingrid Skyberg to you, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“FBI? Is this a joke?”
A uniformed police officer riding a bicycle came to a stop at the edge of the skate park, ditched the bike and scrambled over to them. He spoke urgently into his radio. “Suspect apprehended.” He turned to Ingrid. “Where’d you learn to do that?” Behind him another cop ran over, and behind her was the woman whose bag had been snatched. The cops bent down and yanked the youth up to a seated position.
Ingrid’s phone was still buzzing. She lifted it out of her armband and answered. “Agent Skyberg.”
“You sound terrible.” It was her boss.
“What’s up, Sol?” She breathed heavily, her chest heaving with exertion.
Sol Franklin cleared his throat, then coughed. He really needed to stop smoking.
“Sol?”
She heard a deep inhale. “Got a case for you. An American citizen has been murdered. I’ll text you the details, but you need to get there super quick.”
“I’m on it.”
The male police officer, with help from one of the skaters, had the thief in restraints. Ingrid approached his colleague. “I’m real sorry,” she said, still out of breath, “but I don’t have time to give you a statement right now.” She pulled out a business card. “Call me this afternoon if you need one.”
The officer looked at the card. “For real?”
“Phone the US Embassy after lunch. They’ll patch you through to me.”
The cop looked up and down the river path, searching for something. “FBI? Where are the cameras?”
“What?”
“You’re filming something, right?” The cop nudged her colleague, whose mouth dropped open. “Is this another parkour video for YouTube?”
One of the skaters turned to her. “No. You’re that… erm… that actress… the one who—”