Eye of a Hunter

by Sylvie Kurtz

  Neither did Gray.

  ABBIE DUMPED BRYN’S REPORT on the bed, scattering its pages. The news Gray had just shared with her hit like a blow to the solar plexus.

  Tomorrow the U.S. Marshals Service was going to allow Rafe to walk out of his jail cell and into the world. Tomorrow Rafe was going to take advantage of these people’s ill-placed trust and escape. Four days before his trial? What was the Marshals Service thinking?

  She gulped and one hand clutched her throat.

  Would Rafe come after her? Finish what he’d started himself? Would he look into her soul with his dark, cold eyes and kill her as he’d killed her father? “I can’t stand it.”

  Voice ripe with disgust, she faced Gray. “I know I said I didn’t want to leave this room until the trial, but I think we need to.”

  From the chair where he sat, Gray’s sharp silver eyes assessed her. “And just where do you want to go?”

  “I don’t know.” Trying to draw her scattered thoughts into a clear composition, she capped the jar of peanut butter and shoved it back on the dresser.

  “I’m not going to let you put yourself in the path of danger. That’s crazy.”

  “As crazy as sitting here just waiting for Rafe to show up?” As crazy as waiting for Rafe to kill Gray before he ripped the flash drive off her neck and disposed of her body?

  “Staying put is a good idea,” Gray said quietly. “It leaves no markers.”

  “He’s going to escape.” She combed her fingers through the short spikes of her hair and yanked at the ends. “You know he will. He’s greasy enough to slip his shackles. He was greasy enough to let them think the idea of taking him outside prison walls was a good one.”

  Gray rose, came toward her and cupped her elbows in his hands. Only self-restraint kept her from sagging into his solid arms. “Abbie, listen to me. Vanderveer won’t get near you. I won’t let him hurt you. Trust me.”

  Trust me. He’d said those words thirteen years ago. If she’d believed him then, if she’d followed him out of Echo Falls, would her father still be alive? Would a child of Gray’s fill her arms instead of her dreams? Would he still love her? She’d give anything to turn back the clock and have Gray wear his love for her as openly as he had that day long ago. But she’d said no, and now she had no right to ask him to sacrifice more.

  Gray skimmed her jaw with the edge of his thumb, regret and something tender winding through the gray of his eyes, begging for compliance. “All I have is one Glock and a spare magazine. We have no idea what we’re up against. How many people Vanderveer’s bought. I’m just one person.”

  She wanted to comply, really she did. She pivoted away from his touch, away from the yearning to have him hold her and protect her. This was her fight. She had to take control.

  She needed to face Rafe, not lie low and wait for him to pop up like a monster in the dark and knock her down as he’d already done to so many of her protectors. “What we need to do is undermine Rafe’s plan. Just like you told Kingsley. We need to shake Rafe’s confidence. We need to turn his contact against him.”

  Think of Rafe. Of how to stop him. Of betrayal.

  She rounded on Gray and grabbed handfuls of his T-shirt. “Let’s razzle-dazzle him.”

  Half of Gray’s mouth quirked up. “Billy Flynn. Chicago.”

  She tugged playfully on the T-shirt lumped in her fists, not sure if he was teasing her as he used to do about her taste in entertainment. “For a guy who claims to hate musicals, you sure know your shows.”

  He tilted his head to one shoulder, and the silver of his eyes shimmered all the way to her toes. “Keep talking.”

  Disturbed by her desire to lean forward and see if that shimmer gave his skin an electric taste, she ran her tongue over her dry lips and looked over his shoulder at the geometric pattern on the curtains. An idea developed as if she’d exposed it to photographic paper and placed it in a developer. “Rafe is like Billy Flynn. What he says and what he does are two different things. Winning is more important than truth. So, what we do is play the game by Rafe’s rules. We give this al-Khafar person the illusion of truth. Just like Rafe does to everyone else. We turn ally against ally. When al-Khafar doesn’t show for their rendezvous, Rafe loses face in front of the task force he’s supposed to wow. They smell betrayal, so they keep the chains tighter and he has no chance to escape.”

  Concentrating, she bit her lower lip. “What would this al-Khafar consider betrayal?”

  Gray shrugged. “Vanderveer selling the same secrets or better secrets to the enemy.”

  “Right. You said al-Khafar was a Chechen Muslim rebelling against Russia.”

  “He’s a U.S. citizen raising money for a rebel group in Chechnya. At least, that’s the rumor. No one’s caught him in the act. So?”

  She released the T-shirt bunched in her fist, and her fingers automatically stretched out toward the warmth of Gray’s chest. “So, if we send al-Khafar a picture of Rafe shaking hands with a Russian official, then he would naturally react with anger and seek revenge.”

  The more fervor crept into her voice, the milder his became. “And how are you proposing to accomplish that feat?”

  A smile bloomed on her lips. She had the skills. For once she knew what to do and how to do it. “Magic. All I need is my studio.”

  Gray shook his head and a note of panic skated along the edge of his voice. “Abbie—”

  His objection to her every idea was starting to tick her off. She reached for the canvas tote on the dresser. “The nice thing about digital photos is that you can manipulate them so well that no seams show. All we have to do is find a picture of a Russian official and clone it with Rafe’s. I have plenty of stock of Rafe. Apparently paranoia does pay off. And with the recent terrorist activity in Russia, finding a picture of someone incriminating on the Internet shouldn’t prove too hard.”

  Gray tagged her hand and held her back. “Even if we could manage all that, how do you plan on delivering this photograph to al-Khafar?”

  She attempted a smile and hoped the stiffness didn’t show. “Well, that’s your contribution to the plan. You can think about it while I’m creating the composite.”

  His grip on her hand tightened. “Out of the question.”

  “Rafe’s going to be too busy—”

  Gray shook his head. “No. We’re not going anywhere near Echo Falls. Remember what happened to Bryn?”

  “How can I forget?” The mistake would plague her the rest of her life. “Then we’ll need to find another studio.”

  “I’m not walking you into danger.”

  “Fine, I’ll go by myself.” Heart thumping, she headed toward the door. How had she ended up like Rafe—manipulating people, photographs to get what she wanted when always before she’d sought truth? But survival demanded a different set of rules.

  Hard fingers digging into the flesh of her arm, Gray stopped her dead in her tracks. “You are not going to go off on your own.”

  “You’re hurting me.”

  As if she’d slapped him, he instantly let go. He prowled the room with feral intensity, muscles sleek and tense, ready for battle. By the window he stilled, lifted the edge of the curtain and swore. Then he faced her with his grimmest expression. “We have company.”

  “Pamela?” Abbie rubbed at the goose bumps trooping up her arms.

  Fury and frustration filled his long, fierce stare. He gave a stiff nod. “Standing outside the office.”

  Pamela here? How had she found them? They’d tossed everything. No one, not even Gray’s Seeker friend, knew where they were. “How are we going to get out of here?”

  Gray yanked on her wrist and aimed her toward the bathroom and its tiny window two floors off the ground. “We need to find some wheels.”

  THE CALL CAME RIGHT ON schedule. Pamela practically purred with delight. “I have the chocolates in my sight.”

  “Very good.” One less detail to take care of after his great manipulation. The sooner he retrieved the evi
dence Abbie carried, the sooner he could move on to more pleasurable distractions. Rafe was counting down the hours until he could taste fresh air again. The rasp of crickets and the drone of tires on asphalt murmured in the background like a siren, making him lick his lips in anticipation. “Where is it?”

  “At a processing place. I have what I need to take care of the problem.”

  Processing place? Her studio? What was Abbie doing there? “Keep it boxed.” To sample, he first had to escape. “Were you able to reach the interested party?”

  “Of course.” Pamela sounded insulted. Maybe his spy girl was becoming a tad too big for her boots. That was when mistakes happened. And he couldn’t afford any mistakes in the next two days. Soon he wouldn’t need her anymore. Perhaps his inside source would want to trade one life for another.

  “Have you taken care of all the details for the party?”

  “Everything’s in place and waiting,” Pamela said. “The right party will get the right morsel. Caterers are like that.”

  And false leads fed to morons made tasty snacks. “Pamela—”

  “If I’m going to meet my schedule, I need to get going.” Something like nails against a hard surface clicked in the receiver.

  “My schedule, Pamela. To the letter. Nothing can go wrong.” He had to get it right on the first try. The task force would have him on a tight leash. He hated depending on others for something this vital.

  “I’ve got everything covered. Trust me. By nightfall the order won’t be a problem for you anymore.”

  “Pamela, about the chocolates, I want to open—”

  The buzz of a disconnected call filled his ear. He shot up, tumbling his chair backward, and slammed down the receiver. The bitch had hung up on him. Had she developed a taste for blood in the past few months?

  If you cheat me out of this pleasure, he vowed, it will be your last.

  If it weren’t for his desire to improve people’s lives, he wouldn’t be in this position now, and he could handle Abbie and her evidence himself.

  Pamela would not ignore him and live.

  No one would.

  Chapter Twelve

  Gray eased up a slat on the blind in the window of the Serendipity Gallery, owned by a friend of Abbie’s. He didn’t like its isolated location outside of Shelburne Falls. With only one road in, a clean getaway from the old brick home and its barn gallery could prove difficult. On the other hand, driving down the narrow country road, he hadn’t caught sight of anyone on their tail.

  Of course, that didn’t mean anything. Especially when the spiders were feasting on his neck. If Pamela had put on Steeltex, she was invisible—especially at night. He’d done everything possible to evade pursuit before, and Pamela had still found them.

  Outside the gallery, talons of black clouds scuffed a ripe moon. Crickets and frogs and mosquitoes chirped and croaked and buzzed in a relentless cacophony that made hearing footsteps next to impossible—especially from someone intent on stealth. The promise of rain hung on the horizon like a threat. The thick, humid air clung to his skin in an oily film. No breeze breathed relief in the stuffy air of the barn office.

  “Is Pamela out there?” Abbie asked in a strained voice as she booted up her friend’s computer.

  “I’m assuming she is even if I can’t see her.” He caught a glimmer of wetness in Abbie’s eyes. She surreptitiously knuckled the evidence away. Then her graceful fingers stuttered over the computer keys until they found home again. Bigger men would’ve folded by now, but Abbie soldiered on. His teenage princess had turned into a full-fledged warrior. In spite of his intention to keep his hands to himself, Gray squeezed her shoulder as he walked by her, then scanned the property once more.

  Abbie’s friend, Serena—of the flamboyant S and no last name—was off at a show, but had told Abbie to make herself at home and given her the location of the key hidden in the stone wall. Security wasn’t Serena’s highest priority—as evidenced by the dark property and the primitive security system. Someone had mostly kept up with mowing the large lawn. Weeds and overgrown bushes populated the flower beds, instead of the riot of annuals and manicured greens he imagined should grace them. That made for plenty of places for a conniving tail to hide.

  He’d hoped to spend the night at the gallery, but given the way he couldn’t shake the center-stage spotlight sensation, staying here wasn’t safe either.

  Inside the gallery a serpentine of partitions hung from the plank-and-beam ceiling by chains and wound around the main floor, offering a taste of everything from paintings to tapestries to photographs. A series of long, narrow windows were cut into the barn siding to offer natural lighting during the day. All were equipped with shades made of wooden slats aged a weathered silver.

  Gray prowled from window to window, drawing down shades as he went. His gaze roamed the darkness, search ing for anything out of place. With Pamela surely skulking about, he had to stay alert. “How long will this take?”

  “Depends,” Abbie said, clicking her way across Serena’s desktop computer.

  The glow of the computer screen softened Abbie’s features. Was that how she looked when she worked on her projects—focused and radiant? All those years ago when Abbie had said no, when she’d chosen to stay in Echo Falls rather than follow him, he’d told himself she’d made the right decision. Her life should be filled with beautiful things—Holbrook mansion, her photographs, a wealthy husband, children. Things he couldn’t give her but that had given him solace. If she was happy, then he was happy for her.

  But she’d had few of those things. She’d even lost a baby. Another man’s baby. A man who hadn’t loved her. A man who now wanted her dead.

  He found himself playing What if? as he’d done on so many long nights. What if he’d tried harder to change her mind? What if she’d come with him? She’d be safe from terrorists. Her father would be alive. They’d have a snug little home with a play set in the backyard and children playing and laughing and a big, goofy dog. They’d go hiking, canoeing and camping. They’d go to the aquarium and the zoo and the circus. They’d go to summer theater in the park, afternoon matinees and school plays. Together as a family, he and Abbie and their kids. They certainly wouldn’t be here, looking over their shoulders, waiting for Pamela to shoot them between the eyes.

  He cleared his throat and shifted his stance. “Depends on what?”

  “On what photos I find and how hard they are to composite.”

  His glance slid to the hollow of her throat and the even beat making the silver chain jump, and found his own pulse leaping with a sudden desire to kiss that tender spot. After the trial, then what? Could he let her walk away again? Did he really want to spend the rest of his life chasing after scum and bedding down in cheap motels more often than at his own house? She deserved better, didn’t she? She deserved a husband who came home every night. “What about your flash drive? You have photos of Vanderveer on there, right?”

  “I do.”

  She pulled on the chain, popped off the flash drive that lay nestled under her T-shirt and inserted it in a port. She chose a photo of Vanderveer shaking hands with a U.S. Army representative and imported it into the Photoshop program. Abbie had caught Vanderveer with a jackal smile and greed that practically beamed dollar signs in his eyes.

  He bent down for a closer look. His hands instinctively curled around the narrow wings of her shoulders, so fragile beneath his fingers. How could her hair still smell of honey and almonds when she’d had to make do with cheap shampoo? “Good choice.”

  “Next we have to find a picture of a Russian official that will make al-Khafar burn with rage.” Abbie clicked on the icon that connected her to the Internet.

  She Googled “Russian Generals” and got mostly history sites. She hit pay dirt with a CNN news account of a Russian general’s visit to Washington, complete with a picture she could capture and use. “There we go. All I need to do now is cut out the general and layer him in Rafe’s photo. I’ll have to flip-fl
op the general around so he’s facing the right way.”

  “Will that be a problem?”

  “Shouldn’t.”

  Gray shook away the ticking-clock sensation in his head. But the unwavering alarm hammered his chest and multiplied his worry for Abbie’s safety. “How long is that going to take?”

  “A lot longer if you stand there breathing down my neck.”

  He straightened and swiveled toward the window, hooking a slat from the wooden blinds with his finger. He wanted a whole lot more than just breathe down her neck. He didn’t want to stand here looking out for a gun-for-hire. He wanted Abbie, and no amount of telling himself that he shouldn’t was going to change that. “Will al-Khafar know who this man is?”

  “According to the news article, Vladimir Soldatov has recently come back from a tour of duty in Chechnya, where he was sent by the Kremlin to control separatists. During his term, Russian troops were often accused of abusing and abducting civilians deemed terrorists. Human rights weren’t high on his list of priorities. He was sent to the U.S. to testify before a congressional panel on terrorism, more specifically on the al-Qaeda connection to the terrorist activities in Chechnya and its U.S. connection. If that doesn’t set al-Khafar off, I don’t know what will.”

  Gray’s fingers twitched reflexively over the Glock holstered beneath his polo shirt. Lighting and composition and whatever else went in a photo should fill her mind, not terrorists and murderers. “Hurry.”

  “Quality takes time, and we need quality to fool Rafe’s contact.”

  And time was a commodity they were short on. Gray paced the length of the gallery, going from window to window and scouring the grounds to keep her safe while she created the composite. All these damned windows, even with the shades down, made him feel as if he were on display.

  As he cut between two panels, something familiar caught his eye, making him stop. The prints on this section of wall pictured a host of people he recognized from around Echo Falls. Familiar but different. He was seeing buildings and people as if he’d never spent the most miserable part of his life there. Women working in the mill, children playing in the schoolyard, men fishing off the stone bridge. Every aspect of life from the awe-inspiring to the gritty gave a revealing, emotional and multilayered look at the town he’d seen through the skew of his pain. The vibrant images made words unnecessary—intrusive even—and touched something in his soul. What view was real? His or the photographer’s?