Chapter 1
Tick. Tick. Tick.
He was losing time.
Losing daylight.
The sun, threatening to set early this time of year, was disappearing behind a mountain ridge, the last cold shafts of light a brilliant blaze filtering through the gathering clouds and skeletal branches of the surrounding trees.
He felt the seconds clicking past. Far too quickly.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
By rote, with the precision he’d learned years before in the military, he set up in an open area that would allow a clean, neat shot.
Not that the bitch deserved the quick death he planned to mete. He would prefer she suffer. But there was no time for waiting. His patience was stretched thin, his skin starting to itch in anticipation.
He knew her routine.
Sighting through his scope one last time, he waited, breath fogging in the air, muscles tense, a drip of sweat collecting under his ski mask despite the frigid temperatures.
Come on, come on, he thought and felt a moment of panic. What if today she changed her mind? What if, for some unknown reason—a phone call, or a visit, or a migraine—she abandoned her yearly ritual? What if, God forbid, this was all for naught, that he’d planned and plotted for a year and by some freak decision she wasn’t coming?
No! That’s impossible. Stay steady. Be patient. Trust your instincts. Don’t give into the doubts. You know what you have to do.
Slowly, he counted to ten, then to twenty, decelerating his heartbeat, calming his mind, clearing his focus. A bird flapped to his right, landing on a snow-covered branch, clumps of white powder falling to the ground. He barely glanced over his shoulder, so intent was he on the area he’d decided would be his killing ground, where the little-used cross-country ski trail veered away from the lake, angling inward through the wintery vegetation.
This would be the place she would die.
His finger tightened over the trigger, just a bit.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
And then he saw her. From the corner of his eye, a tall, slim figure glided easily on her skis.
Good.
Reddish hair poked out from beneath her ski cap as she skied, ever faster. Recklessly. Dangerously. Tall, rangy, and athletic, she wound her way closer. She’d been called “bullheaded” and “tenacious,” as well as “determined.” Like a dog with a bone, she never gave up, was always ready to fight.
Well, no more. He licked his lips, barely noticing how dry they were. A hum filled his mind, the familiar sound he always heard before a kill.
Just a couple more seconds . . .
Every nerve ending taut, he waited until she broke from the trees. His shot was clear. She glanced in his direction, those glacial bluish eyes searching the forest, that strong chin set.
As if she sensed him, she slowed, squinting.
He pulled the trigger.
Craaaack!
With an ear-splitting report, the rifle kicked hard and familiar against his shoulder.