Deadly Christmas Secrets

by Shirlee McCoy

  Glass shattered. Picasso howled.

  Logan shouted something, but she couldn’t hear the words past the pulsing of blood in her ears.

  Another shout. More glass shattering.

  An explosion of gunfire, and the SUV swerved, spun, wheels shrieking as more gunshots filled the air.

  The SUV came to a jarring halt, and Malone opened his door, cold air seeping into the SUV as he ran, Picasso scrambling over the seat and following him.

  Sirens screamed, the kitten howled and Stella spoke calmly. Probably into her phone. Harper couldn’t see anything except her knees and the floor. Harper tried to nudge Logan away so she could breathe and see and think.

  “Stay down!” he growled.

  She didn’t have much of a choice, and she didn’t have enough air in her lungs to tell him that.

  Seconds later, he shifted, his weight gone, breath filling Harper’s lungs.

  “Do. Not. Move,” he commanded, and then he was gone, the door slamming closed, the sirens still screaming.

  She waited. A heartbeat. Two.

  Then she eased up, her heart hammering in her chest, her body shaking with adrenaline.

  Cold air wafted in from the shattered front window, a few branches of a big tree brushing against the vehicle’s hood.

  Harper eased up a little more, trying to see into the front seat. Stella was there, gun in hand, eyes trained on the darkness beyond the window.

  “He said not to move,” Stella muttered, her voice thick and a little slurred.

  “What happened?”

  “Ambush. At least two shooters. One on either side of the road.” She swiped blood from a cut on her cheek, but her gaze never wavered.

  “Were you hit?” Harper climbed into the front seat, ignoring Stella’s muttered warning and using Logan’s jacket to wipe at the seeping wound. “This is pretty deep.”

  “It’s just from glass. I’ll be fine.”

  “You need stitches.”

  “What I need,” Stella responded, “is for you to do what Logan said. Stay down. These guys aren’t shooting at us, Harper. They’re after you.”

  True, but there was no way Harper was going to cower behind a seat while other people fought her battles for her.

  She dabbed at the wound again, and Stella brushed her hand away.

  “Enough. I’ll deal with that after the police arrive.”

  “They’re here,” Harper said. The lights of the approaching squad cars flashed in the rearview mirror.

  “Good. Stay here. I’ll talk to them.”

  She was out of the car before Harper could reply.

  The yowling kitten hopped into Harper’s lap, and she could have sat where she was, waiting for the problem to be dealt with.

  Could have, but wasn’t going to.

  She’d spent most of her life taking care of herself. She wasn’t going to stop now.

  She set the kitten on the seat and hopped out of the SUV, cold, crisp air enveloping her as she moved toward the police cars.

  * * *

  Two shooters. Double the trouble. Double the chance of getting killed. Except one of them was dead, shot by Malone, his body lying beside the road.

  Logan didn’t have any intention of letting the other gunman take him down. He had a score to settle.

  He’d been set up, used as a pawn to get Harper. He wasn’t sure why, had no idea how all the pieces of the puzzle fit together, but he was going to find out.

  Fifty yards away, Malone moved through the cemetery, his dark figure nearly blending with the deeper shadows of the grave sites and monuments. Picasso moved beside him, surprisingly silent and focused, his nose to the ground, his tail stiff.

  He’d scented something.

  The perp?

  That would be convenient.

  It would be easy.

  It could be dangerous.

  The puppy had no idea what he was doing. He wasn’t a trained police dog, and if he got in the way, he could get shot. Or get someone else shot.

  Something to think of for the next time.

  For now, they had to keep moving forward.

  He signaled, indicating that he was heading toward the church, and Malone signaled back. He’d take the east side of the building. Eventually they’d meet up. Hopefully they’d have the perp cornered.

  Logan headed west, aiming for the back corner of the old stone building. Its steeple reached toward the sky, the hulking tower gothic and old. He’d never been in this area of town, had no reason to hang out in some of the more posh areas of DC. His place was in a middle-class area, where urban sprawl had settled into a nice, tight-knit neighborhood.

  Even there, crime happened, danger lurked.

  If there was one thing Logan had learned during his time in the military, it was to expect trouble.

  He was expecting it now, his gun in hand, his breathing soft and controlled. He forced it to be that way, not wanting to mask the sound of a quiet approach.

  He reached the building, skirted around the side and made his way along the edge. Nothing. Not a footprint stamped into the dry grass.

  He had that feeling, though. The one that said trouble was nearby. It niggled at the back of his mind. He scanned the area, eying the grassy slope that stretched from the building to a narrow copse of trees.

  He could see lights and houses through them. A car zipping past.

  Civilization and civility, but a monster hid in the shadows. He sensed him like he sensed the dawn hovering just beneath the horizon.

  Voices carried on the quiet air, distant but drawing near. The police, probably. Maybe with their own K-9 team. A man had been shot dead. A woman was wounded. Not badly. Stella had insisted she was fine, had told him if he didn’t get out of the SUV and go after the perp, she’d do it herself.

  He’d gone, because she would have done it if he’d been the one with the bleeding gash on his face.

  First rule of engagement—secure the scene.

  Until it was secured, no one was safe.

  He stopped at the corner of the building, looking out into an empty parking lot. Across it, a shed sat sheltered by tall pines and an old oak. The darkness was thick there, the shadows impenetrable. If Logan were looking for a place to hide, that was where he’d have headed. A good vantage point to see both corners of the building, a good place to stage an ambush.

  He’d wait the perp out, see if he showed himself.

  That was another thing he’d learned in the military—patience. Rushing in could get a guy killed, and Logan had no desire to die. He had Christmas to attend with siblings he hadn’t seen in too long.

  The job.

  Always getting in the way of his personal life.

  That was fine.

  It was good.

  Sometimes, though, it was lonely.

  This year, he wouldn’t spend Christmas in a foreign country. This year, he’d be home on the farm, where he’d spent his growing-up years. Where his parents had built something solid and nice, something Logan’s brother was maintaining. He’d bring a bagful of gifts and he’d eat boatloads of food, and when it was over, he’d go home, and he’d thank God that he’d had the opportunity.

  Yeah. He had to stay alive.

  And that meant playing it smart.

  He stuck to the shadowy edge of the building, the voices behind him drifting on the crisp air. The police would be there soon. If the perp were around, he’d need to make his move fast or he’d be trapped.

  The cold metal of the gun pressed into his palm. The shivering chill of the air seeped through his shirt. He didn’t move and didn’t hear Malone or the dog moving, either.

  Nothing. For a heartbeat. Two. Nothing for the time it took several cars to pass on a nearby road.r />
  Nothing, and then a shadow seemed to undulate near the shed.

  There!

  It separated itself from the blackness, ducked beneath a pine bough and disappeared.

  TEN

  Logan moved across the parking lot and eased into the trees where the perp had been hiding. The shed was small, the door locked. The guy had probably been hoping to find a way inside, maybe bunk down there until he lost his tail. There were no windows, though. No way to break in except the door.

  Logan walked past the shed and through the trees, stepping out into a wide field.

  He scanned the area, heard something coming through the trees behind him.

  Someone.

  Not Malone. He’d have signaled, and he’d have been a lot quieter about it. Logan holstered his gun and ducked back into the shelter of the pine boughs, took position behind a thick-trunked tree and waited. Twigs snapped. Leaves crunched. A shadow appeared.

  He didn’t hesitate, didn’t give the guy time to realize he’d been seen. He threw himself at the figure, knocking the guy off his feet before he had a chance to realize what was happening.

  It took about two seconds to disarm the guy, a little longer to get him to give up the fight.

  By the time he did, Malone was there, Picasso growling at his side.

  “Took you long enough,” Logan said, dragging the perp to his feet.

  The guy was young, about six foot, lean, his face pockmarked from drug use. He looked more dazed than dangerous.

  “Hey,” he said, yanking against Logan’s hold. “Let me go!”

  “So you can shoot at us again?” Malone asked, and the perp struggled harder.

  “I didn’t shoot at anyone. I was minding my own business—”

  “Tell you what,” Logan interrupted, because he wanted to get back to the SUV and check on Stella and on Harper. “How about you save it for the police?”

  “Police? We don’t need no police. Me and my friend was minding our own business, walking through the churchyard and some guy, he comes up to us and he says, ‘You want to make some money?’ And I said yeah, because who doesn’t need money? And he says, ‘We’re just going to play a prank on my friends. Scare them a little, just fire a couple of shots at their car.’ We weren’t supposed to hurt anyone.” The man was still talking as Logan dragged him back toward the church.

  “You know your buddy is dead, right?” Logan asked, cutting the guy off, because he was tired and wasn’t in the mood to listen to the lie.

  “You killed Drake?” the kid asked, all the bravado gone from his face.

  “He killed himself. Or as good as killed himself.” Malone didn’t sound all that sorry for the death. He sounded resigned. “You shoot at someone who has a gun, you’ve got to expect that they’re going to shoot back.”

  “He didn’t tell us you had guns,” the perp said, then pressed his lips together as if he knew he’d said too much.

  “Who didn’t tell you?” Logan asked.

  “The guy who asked us to...help him out.”

  “By scaring his friends?” Logan prodded, and the kid had the decency to keep his mouth shut.

  Maybe he realized the lie wasn’t going to work, that with his friend dead, he had no one to back up his story. Maybe he was sorry he and his buddy had agreed to ambush the SUV. Probably he was sorry about that. His friend was dead. No amount of money was worth that.

  “How much did you get paid?” Malone asked. “Was it the value of your friend’s life?”

  That was all it took, and the kid started blubbering, his eyes seeping, his nose running, his sobs echoing through the night.

  They wouldn’t get any more out of him. The police would have to do that.

  They’d reached the church, and several police officers were moving toward them, flashlights dancing across the ground.

  “Hold it right there,” one called out. “Drop your weapons. Keep your hands where we can see them.”

  Logan did what he was told. No sense getting himself shot by the good guys. They’d sort things out. Eventually. In the meantime, the perp was in custody, and he had a story to tell. One that Logan was really anxious to hear.

  “I’m putting the gun down,” he said, making his intentions very clear as he lowered it to the pavement. Then he waited impatiently while the police slapped handcuffs on all three of them, frisked them and separated them for questioning. Logan stood silently while his credentials were checked, his story confirmed. Finally, his Glock was handed back and his wallet was returned.

  “Good enough,” the officer said. “We’ll want to take an official statement, but your story matches what the ladies said—self-defense. Glad you were able to take the guy out before he took one of you out.”

  “Are the women still back at the SUV?” Logan asked.

  “Ambulance took them away. One needs stitches. The other insisted on going with her.”

  That was not what Logan wanted to hear.

  Sure, a hospital sounded safe. That was the problem. Assuming she was safe because she was surrounded by medical professionals, patients and visitors was a sure way for Harper to get into trouble.

  “Did an officer go with them?”

  “Someone is going to meet them there.” The policeman didn’t seem concerned. He was more focused on the notes he was writing than the words he was saying.

  “They were almost killed, Officer. Your department didn’t think it was necessary to give them an escort?”

  That got the guy’s attention. He looked up from his notepad and scowled. “My department has its hands full tonight, Fitzgerald. Two murders. Three robberies. Five shootings, and now the mess you people have brought with you.” He waved toward the perp, who was sitting on the ground, police officers flanking him. The medical examiner’s van that was parked near the SUV.

  “We didn’t bring him or his friend. They’re local.”

  “You brought your troubles,” the officer responded. “So here’s the deal. A homicide detective is meeting the ladies at the hospital. Guy by the name of Thomas Willard. You know him?”

  “Not personally.”

  “But you know of him, right?” he pressed, and Logan nodded. “That’s what I thought. He’s sticking his nose in this case for whatever reason, and I’m not going to tell him to get out of it. He called my supervisor, told him that he’d be at the hospital when the victims arrived. I’m assuming he’s there. That’s about all I can do. Like I said, I have my hands full.”

  “Understood,” Logan said, keeping his voice neutral. He knew how difficult police work was, and he wasn’t going to press the guy for more than what he could give.

  “You want to head to the hospital, you’re welcome to do it. I’ve got your contact information. I’ll call if I need more from you.”

  “Will you call when you get more from him?” He nodded toward the perpetrator.

  “Soon as I have five seconds to breathe,” the officer said, fishing a card from his pocket and handing it to Logan. “Take this. You don’t hear from me in a couple of days, give me a call.”

  “Thanks.”

  “It’s my job,” he said, but Logan was already walking away. He bypassed Malone, who was still being questioned. He didn’t stop to chat. They’d hook up later. For now, he had one goal—make sure Harper was safe.

  * * *

  Stella handled getting five stitches in her cheek a lot better than Harper handled seeing her get them.

  Which was odd, because she’d never been squeamish about blood or needles. Right now, though, she felt light-headed and a little faint.

  “If you pass out,” Stella said as the emergency room doctor placed the last stitch, “I will take a photo of you lying on the floor and post it to social media.”

  “I’m not on socia
l media, so it won’t affect me one way or another,” she replied, her mouth a little dry, her stomach churning.

  “Okay. How about this? You pass out, and I’ll tell them to leave you lying on the floor until Logan and Malone show up. I’ll let one of them scrape you off the ground.”

  The thought of either of the men lifting her from the ground was enough to clear her head.

  “I hope they’re okay,” she said.

  “The men are fine. If they weren’t, I’d have already heard about it. The ones I’m worried about are your mutt and that ugly little cat. I still don’t know why they wouldn’t let us bring them in the ambulance.” Stella brushed the doctor’s hand away, pressed the bandage he was trying to apply to her cheek into place.

  “There. Done,” she said, jumping up from the table, apparently more than ready to leave. “Let’s get out of here, Harper.”

  “If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll have the nurse come in with aftercare instructions,” the doctor said, not even trying to get her to sit down again.

  “Don’t bother,” Stella said blithely. “I’m a nurse, and I’ll take good care of the wound.”

  “But—” the doctor began.

  Stella ignored him, grabbing Harper’s hand and dragging her into the hallway.

  “I could have stitched myself up a lot faster,” she said, as if they hadn’t been shot at and nearly killed, as if she hadn’t just gotten five stitches in her cheek, as if some guy with a gun hadn’t been lying dead a hundred yards from the SUV.

  Harper had seen him there, facedown, the gun still clutched in his hand.

  It had shaken her, brought back those memories of walking into the morgue, bracing herself to do what Gabe wouldn’t.

  She gagged, and Stella shot her a hard look.

  “Pull it together, Harper. This is no time to have a mental breakdown.”

  “I don’t plan on it.”

  “Good, because you need to call your brother-in-law and get him to drive over here. Since Logan and Malone are occupied with the police, we’re in need of a ride, and I can’t think of anyone else who can come get us on such short notice.”

  “Except maybe me?” a man asked, the voice so surprising even Stella jumped.