***
The plates from the SUV that had whisked Vivi and Michael to safety from the hotel belonged to one FBI Special Agent Jed Brennan. The interesting thing about that was the GPS signal had since been turned off. The BAU agent had been heavily involved with the Vincents before they’d disappeared, but he was now supposedly on leave and had left immediately following the safe house shooting.
Elan might have believed the man’s cover story, except he knew the gunmen hadn’t taken the woman and the boy. He’d had someone pull Brennan’s credit card purchases and either the guy went all out for Christmas, or he’d been outfitting two people who’d needed to buy everything from scratch.
His instincts told him Brennan had the woman and the boy.
The fed had been heading in the direction of Sawyerville when he’d gone off the grid. Brennan’s twin brother was the Chief of Police there. Parents ran a cabin rental company on a lake about six miles southwest—that’s where he’d start looking. The other brother was thankfully overseas, so he didn’t need to deal with him.
He’d bet money Brennan had come home.
It was still a gamble that the boy was with him, but there were no other leads or sightings, and time was running out. They’d have one shot at this. If the boy started communicating any of their plans, the opportunity would be blown and people would have died for nothing.
Pilah Rasheed was the best chance of this second attack working. Elan intended to be there in the background, making sure she either pulled it off or died trying. She could never be allowed to talk. Too much was at stake. Too much to lose if any of the pieces failed to fit the expected picture.
He parked off the main street and went into the local bar, taking in the stink of stale beer, and the dead animal decor. Stuffed fish in glass museum cases, along with furry woodland creatures contorted into bizarre human parodies.
Hunting, shooting, fishing. That was what this area was all about.
Hunting.
That’s all he was interested in. And not getting caught.
Wood gleamed like honey, the bar, the walls, the ceiling. The sticky, white, tile floor needed a sweep and the lick of a warm, wet mop. He walked over to a burgundy, vinyl stool and sat, waiting patiently to be served.
“What can I get you?” The barkeep’s reddened eyes kept being dragged back to the TV screen over on the far wall.
Good. He wouldn’t remember him. “Beer. Whatever is on tap is fine.”
They were still showing coverage of the mall attack and brief flashes of the interview Vivi Vincent had done with the media about her son’s amazing artistic ability. Bet she wished she’d never gone near Minneapolis. He definitely wished she’d stayed home.
The barkeep slid a tall glass of frothy liquid across the bar to him. Elan gave him a ten dollar bill and told him to keep the change.
“I’m looking for a place to stay for a few days. And a decent place to eat.”
“You up here hunting?”
He nodded. “Deer.” He’d dressed the part. Thick warm boots. Lined camo pants. Beige shirt. Hunting jacket. Orange hat. His rifle out in the truck was a Springfield M1A with a Nightforce scope, good quality but nothing to raise eyebrows. He pointed at the screen. “Wanted to get out of the city so figured I’d come up early.” There was a short window to hunt antlerless deer opening tomorrow. He was lucky. He got to hide in plain sight.
“Got everything you need around here. DNR office can give you maps and sell you a license. I can give you the name of some locals who’ll butcher anything you shoot.” The barkeep’s eyes were assessing despite the red glow.
Elan would do well to remember these people were generally more in tune with their environment, and most of them owned shotguns. He’d need to be careful. A lot depended on him tracking down the boy and eliminating any potential threat. An entire nation depended on him. He couldn’t afford compassion or pity. If the plan went wrong, war would loom between enemies and allies alike.
His people were tracking Sargon, who’d slipped out of his villa immediately after the mall shooting. Sargon had traveled to a small village in the hills where one of his daughters had relocated after her marriage to a tribal leader. She was fourteen years old.
Later that same day, Pilah’s daughters had been brought to him also. Leverage. To make sure Pilah did as she was told when the time came. If Abdullah hadn’t been captured, she would probably have already been dead, but too many of Sargon’s pawns had fallen, and the man needed everyone he could get.
Elan had promised Pilah he’d try and get her children to safety, and he kept most of his promises. Forces near the Lebanese village would rescue the children before the house where Sargon stayed was razed to the ground. The fact the children would end up in a refugee camp or orphanage was regrettable. He took no pleasure in children dying, but his loyalty to his country was paramount. Hence the capacity to eliminate any potential threat Michael Vincent represented.
Elan checked his watch and finished his beer. The barkeep told him of a motel along the highway. He thanked him and left the bar, driving past the police station to the DNR offices. Time to get himself a ticket to go hunting. Time to take care of the problem once and for all.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It turned out they weren’t just going into the woods to shoot a few beer cans. Jed’s father had created a permanent gun range on his land, cut through the thicket of dense forest about two-hundred meters long, and a few meters wide. The older man had hauled out an entire arsenal of weapons that would have looked right at home inside the lair of a Mexican drug cartel.
Vivi drew in a cold breath and watched Jeremiah coach Michael on how to hold the gun, where to point it when not shooting at something, to keep his finger off the trigger until he was ready to fire.
Despite her dislike of guns there was no doubt her son was enjoying his lesson. Michael had been much more alert since coming to the cabin. He’d slept well, eaten. The fear and trauma from yesterday and the day before were still in his eyes, but they were more a shadow than the shroud they’d been yesterday. Maybe poor Dr. Hinkle had been right, all Michael needed was peace and quiet and a sense of normalcy. Plus, a shooting lesson from a man who seemed to live and breathe weapons…
“He’s fine.”
Vivi looked up at Jed who stood beside her. “Easy for you to say.”
His eyes sparkled. “Trust me. I might not know much about Michael as an individual, but I do have firsthand experience with being an eight-year-old boy. Shooting targets is a surefire hit.”
Jed Brennan did seem to know how to appeal to her child. Michael had never appeared more ‘normal.’ He was watching Jeremiah intently, doing exactly as he was told. The fact guns were involved made her nervous, but something about them drew him. They obviously drew a lot of kids, and at least this way he had a chance to learn about them in a safe environment.
Her eyes cut to the man beside her and traced the stubble on Jed’s jaw which she’d kissed last night. She looked away before he caught her staring and gave her another warning about them not making a mistake. She got it. She totally got it. But she liked looking at him. She liked that he tried to make her and Michael smile. Despite the awful things he must deal with on a regular basis Jed had retained a keen sense of humor and, more importantly, his humanity. It showed the heart of a good man.
They were rarer than they should be.
She wanted to ask him about his work, but had the horrible feeling that if she did their situation would get a little too real, a little too scary, and she’d had enough of real and scary to last a lifetime. So she kept it light instead.
“This must have come in handy when going through new agent training.”
“Sure did. My dad used to trek me and my brothers up here after every Sunday lunch, and we’d spend hours on the range. Heaven for boys.”
Her gaze cut to his holster. “Looks like some little boys never grew up.”
He rubbed his hands together in the cold air
trying to keep them warm. “Little, huh?” The light in his eyes grew more amused as he towered over her 5’ 9” frame. He leaned closer to her ear. “And if you think me being in the FBI is bad, you should have seen me in the military when we had ordinance.”
“Oh, please, no bombs. I don’t think my ‘mom’ gene would survive the experience.”
“Better cover your ears,” Jed told her as his father and her son walked toward the target.
He slipped a pair of ear protectors over her head, and a shiver ran all over her body just from the feel of his fingers in her hair. Damn, he shouldn’t affect her like this—she wasn’t fifteen. She adjusted the earpieces and then winced as Michael emptied an entire clip rapid-fire into a red circular target.
Holy crap.
Michael turned and grinned with such pride and excitement her heart gave a little trip. He repeated the process with several different pistols and then a BB gun. Finally Jeremiah looked up with a proud smile.
She pulled off the ear protectors and Jed’s father waved them over.
“You ready to give it a go, Vivi?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Michael looks like he’s getting cold.”
Jeremiah placed the last handgun they’d used on a table they’d set up. “Don’t worry about Michael. I’ll take him back to the house. Mary will have hot chocolate on the stove to warm us both up. You two take a few minutes to run through some basic drills.” He pinned her with a narrow gaze. “You do believe in equality, don’t you?”
Vivi’s mouth fell open. He was challenging her on a different level. Telling her that her responsibilities now included being able to protect her son, and his, with deadly force if necessary.
Could she do it?
A week ago she’d have said no. But Vivi wasn’t feeling like she had much of a choice anymore. All she had to do was remember the mall shooting, or Dr. Hinkle getting shot, or the marshal bleeding to death on the floor of the so-called safe house. The idea that that could be Michael or Jed made her insides feel like tangled skeins of wool.
She would pull her weight. She would learn how to load a gun, how to fire one.
“Let’s do it,” she said.
Jeremiah touched one of the pistols on the table. “Try out the Glock and the 1911, then the shotgun last. Recoil could knock you over if you’re not used to it, but it’s the most effective thing for scaring the crap out of people.”
She nodded. The idea of her holding a gun should scare the crap out of anyone.
Jed helped his father pack up most of the weaponry and put it in the back of the ATV.
“See you back at the house. No rush.” Jeremiah tipped his head at her and helped Michael jump on the four-wheeler for the short journey down the plowed road back to the cabin set above the bank of the lake. She’d thought Michael would cling to her in this strange environment, but being with the Brennans seemed to come naturally. He didn’t even wave goodbye. He trusted them. The weird thing was, she did too.
The engine of the ATV faded out of earshot, and the total silence of a snow covered forest settled around them.
It was just her and Jed, and a few hundred rounds of ammunition.
***
“OK, change your stance.”
Jed had taught people to shoot before. The main thing was making sure the person holding the gun remembered that the metal object they held in their hands needed to be treated with absolute caution and respect, otherwise someone could die. It wasn’t exactly a problem with Vivi. If she were any more cautious around weapons, she’d have her hands in the air, walking backward toward the road.
She held the gun in a two-handed grip pointed at the ground in front of her. She shifted her foot slightly to the side.
“Try to relax your shoulders.”
She sagged like someone cut her strings.
He hid a smile. “Nervous?”
“As a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”
“That’s it.” He adjusted her grip so her skin didn’t get shredded on the slide, or get in the way of the spent case ejecting. “Now move your finger onto the trigger and aim at the target. Squeeze slowly.”
She started tightening her finger on the trigger, her arms shaking so much he feared she was going to drop the gun. Not a good option.
“Nothing is happening,” she gritted out.
“Relax,” he repeated. He stepped up behind her and supported her left arm with his just to keep her steady. Her scent whispered with a hint of lavender soap that his mother had put out for them. He wished she’d stuck to Ivory, because right now he wanted to inhale Vivi. To lean closer. Taste her.
Not the time or the place to be thinking about anything but guns and bullets and the reality of their situation. They were together through necessity, not choice.
But did that mean they couldn’t enjoy the quiet moments?
He supported her arm so she stopped shaking. Spoke loudly so she could hear him over the ear muffs. “The Glock 21 has a five and a half pound trigger.” He kept his voice and expression stern so she wouldn’t misread the situation as anything but a practical lesson in survival. The gun went off, and he steadied her stance again. “You just need to get a feel for it.” She squeezed again, and this time the gun fired much more easily. She hit center target with the last two shots. Then she fired the rest of the thirteen rounds and never missed the target once. A natural. Figured. Women were often the better shots. When she was finished she grinned at him, looking a hell of a lot like her son.
She handed him the weapon with a sigh of relief, their faces only inches apart.
Being a brunette didn’t decrease her appeal one bit. Wearing not a speck of make-up just made her look younger and fresher. She had freckles on her nose and full pink lips. Pretty lips. Damn she looked like a schoolgirl rather than a grown woman. But there was something in her eyes. Not just sadness. Not just fear. Not even just the flicker of attraction they were both fighting. Wisdom? Courage? That core of inner strength and intelligence that shone through her gaze? Whatever it was, she affected him differently than any woman he’d met since Mia.
Christ.
Good thing Liam couldn’t see him now. When his brother had come over last night, Liam had told him to watch his back and maintain his objectivity.
Sure. No problem.
He cleared his throat. “How did you like that one?”
She grimaced. He checked the weapon was empty, and they repeated the lesson with the SW1911 and he taught her how to load it.
“I think I like this one better.” She tried the grip in both hands, adjusting her fingers to find the best position. She’d hit the target repeatedly, dead center.
“The Glock packs a bit of a punch. At least now you know what to expect if you have to fire one…”
Her exhilaration seemed to evaporate as if she’d recalled why they were having shooting lessons. He touched her shoulder. “Hey, this is a last resort. They shouldn’t find us here, but if they do, we need to be ready.”
“I understand. I do. It just doesn’t make me feel any better about it.”
Because shooting a target was one thing. Putting a bullet in another human being was something else entirely. He picked up the shotgun and cracked it open. He showed her how to load it, where the safety was. Then he positioned her in front of a different target, this one further away. He moved behind her and wedged the butt of the shotgun into her shoulder. “Line up the sights like before. The shot scatters so it should be easier to hit something—anything—even at a distance.”
She cradled the shotgun and he stood behind her, ready to catch her if she fell. She aimed the gun and settled into the calm of the woods. The sky was a soft, bruised purple that promised more snow. She gently squeezed the trigger, and even the trees seemed to shake with the boom. She took a step back, but didn’t fall. He rested his hands against her back. He liked putting his hands on her. He wasn’t even thinking about sex—OK, now he was thinking about sex, but generally he just liked touching
her. After a few seconds she drew in a deep breath and then raised the gun back to her shoulder. She fired a second time, and this time her stance didn’t waver.
She lowered the twelve gauge, and he caught it up in his hands, checked that the barrels were empty. They both removed their ear protection and stood staring at one another, their breath misting in the subzero temps. “You did great.”
“Thanks.” She opened her mouth to say something else, but hesitated.
“What is it?”
“I wanted to ask you a question.”
Warily, he said, “Go on.”
A shadow moved across her eyes. “Is it easy to kill someone?”
Not what he was expecting. The memory of him slitting the guy’s throat in the mall rushed over him. It wasn’t pretty, but he didn’t have any regrets. “Easy? No. Not hard either when the person is trying to kill innocent civilians.” He began putting the pistols and ammunition in a small backpack his father had left.
A hand touched his arm. “I’m not judging you. I’d be dead if it wasn’t for you. I just don’t know if I’ll be able to do it if I have to.”
He turned and took her cold fingers in his and rubbed some warmth into them. She was freezing, but hadn’t complained once. He enclosed her hands in his and blew on them.
“Shooting someone from a distance is easier than killing someone in hand-to-hand combat, but I don’t recommend either except in extraordinary circumstances.” He let her go and concentrated on getting the ammo packed up.
“You’re a profiler, right? You spend most of your time in your office and yet you overpowered that man using only a knife? He was massive.”
The guy had been slow and stupid and full of blood lust which had left him wide open. “I’m a federal agent who works at the Behavioral Analysis Unit—there’s no such job as a profiler. I was in the Army for a few years, and I’m trained in combat. I do a lot of martial arts to keep fit,” to keep sane, “and I had a hell of an incentive to take out that guy in the mall.” One side of his mouth kicked up. “My boss wishes I spent all my time in the office, because I have a habit of getting too involved in cases.” Obviously his boss was right.
Cold Pursuit (Cold Justice) (Volume 2) Page 19