Chosen To Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

Nor did she see the tall spruce, fir, and pine trees, their branches drooping under the pressure of snow and ice as they rose like majestic sentinels in the crisp, frigid air and snowflakes poured from invisible clouds. The wipers were slapping away the flakes while the heater thrust out BTUs. Despite the fan, the warmed air flow couldn’t keep up with the steam on the inside of the windows. Pescoli squinted and longed for a single blast of nicotine as she braced herself for the confrontation that was about to ensue. It promised to be epic. So much for “Merry Christmas,” “Happy Holidays,”

and “Peace and goodwill to men.” Not in Lucky’s case. Not ever. All those platitudes about making nice for the kids, keeping the peace, and reining in her emotions were out the window.

4

Lisa Jackson

He could not, could not, take her kids from her. Sure, she worked a lot of overtime with the Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department and lately, with the winter storms causing widespread electrical outages, road closures, and icy conditions everywhere, the department had been stretched thin. Then there was the Star-Crossed Killer still at large, the first serial killer ever to hunt in this part of Montana. This guy was bad news. A patient, organized, and skilled killer who somehow shot out the tires of unsuspecting victims, then “rescued” the injured women before squirreling them to some private lair where he nurtured them back to health, gaining their trust and dependence before marching them naked into the storm-ravaged wilderness and strapping them to a tree where he left them to die a slow, agonizing death in the frigid, unforgiving forests.

God, she’d love to nail his ass.

So far the cruel bastard had killed five women, the last one, Hannah Estes, having survived long enough to be found and life-flighted to a hospital where she had died before regaining consciousness and identifying the sick son of a bitch. There was other evidence found at the scenes, of course, the crashed vehicles found far from where the victims were located and even notes left at each killing arena by the slayer, nailed over the victims’ heads. But

not one shred of evidence so far could be tied to any suspect. Not that they had any real person of interest. At this point, with the victims unrelated, no wouldbe killer had popped onto the radar. Yet.

CHOSEN TO DIE

5

That would change. It had to.

In the meantime, while Pescoli and the whole damned department were logging in extra hours trying to nail the sick son of a bitch, Lucky had the audacity, the unmitigated gall to kidnap her kids and let her know he planned on seeking full custody. Miserable prick.

She’d hung up from him less than half an hour earlier, called her partner to cover for her, and was now within fifteen minutes of the bastard’s place. Popping in a Tim McGraw CD, she realized it belonged to Lucky and ejected it. She tossed the damned thing onto the floor of the passenger seat next to her empty, crumpled pack of Marlboro Lights. She thought fleetingly of Nate Santana, a man with whom she was involved. He had a way of turning her inside out, but she knew he was wrong for her. Way wrong. A goodlooking cowboy; the type to avoid. And one she couldn’t think about now. Not when she had more important things on her mind.

Damn Lucky!

The Jeep’s tires slid a bit and she corrected carefully. She’d been driving these hills in blizzards for years, but she was furious and probably pushing through a bit too aggressively.

Tough.

Outrage guided her.

Her sense of justice fueled her.

She hit the corner a little too fast and started to slide, only to work her way out of it before the Jeep hit the shoulder and careened into the abyss that was Cougar Canyon.

She shifted down. The wheels slid again, as if the 6

Lisa Jackson

road was covered in a sheet of ice, here near the crest of the final hill. A few more feet and she’d start her way down the hill . . .

Again the rig slipped.

“Losin’ your touch,” she chided as she reached the corner.

Crack!

The forest echoed with the sound of a highpowered rifle blast. By instinct Regan ducked and with one hand on the wheel scrabbled for her sidearm.

The Jeep shuddered and she realized what was happening. In the middle of the friggin’ blizzard, someone was taking potshots at her vehicle. Not potshots. It’s the Star-Crossed Killer! This is how he initially gets his victims! Fear knifed her heart.

Her rig spun, tires skidded, her seat belt clutched, and behind the wheel she was useless.

Faster and faster the Jeep spiraled, sliding over the edge of the cliff. Frantically, she grabbed her cell phone, touched it, but it fell from her hand as the Jeep bumped and crashed through trees, lurching over rocks, metal crunching and screaming, glass and cold air spraying inside, the air bag slamming her. Bam! The Jeep landed on its side, metal shrieking, sharp rocks and debris tearing through the door. Pain screamed up her neck and shoulder and she knew she was hurt.

Warm blood oozed from the side of her head as the Jeep tore through the brush as if on rails, then began to roll.