Ready to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

Damn!

The beams glowed brighter, splashing on the cabin’s wall despite the veil of snowflakes. He saw that they were from a fast-approaching Jeep. The driver was pushing it, as if he knew that there was danger.

He had to leave. Now. No time to waste.

The damned dog let out a bone-chilling howl. In frustration, he trained the barrel of his rifle toward the animal, sighting the beast just as the Jeep slid to a stop.

No time.

Despite the clean shot, he stopped himself.

He would show his hand if he killed the damned dog. Whoever was driving the Jeep would be certain to see him. It would be lucky if the driver hadn’t seen the flash of his barrel as it was. He couldn’t take a chance.

Unless he took the Jeep’s owner out too.

The driver’s side door burst open. A woman with reddish hair threw herself out of her county-issue vehicle.

His heart nearly stopped as he recognized her: Detective Regan Pescoli of the Pinewood Sheriff’s Department, and a Bitch on Wheels.

Wouldn’t you know?

For half a second, he considered shooting her too. A two-for-one. Why not?

He hesitated but couldn’t get a clean shot. Besides, she would be armed, and the dog was already looking in his direction, starting to move toward the rise where he’d taken cover. No, he couldn’t take the risk. Couldn’t get caught. There was too much to do, and it had to be done precisely. No mistakes. According to plan.

Heart hammering, he backed away from the stump and into the cover of the frigid forest. Quickly, he slid his rifle into its case, strapped it over his back, and plunged his ski poles into the snow. He took off like the bullet that had dropped the sheriff. Running late, but not about to be caught by the damned mutt or ID’d by the detective. Tucking his body tight, he sped down the steep trail, shooting between the trees and jumping over exposed boulders as he heard the chilling howl of Grayson’s dog reverberating down the ravine.

But the animal would never catch him.

And then there were four.

That was, if his shot was true, if Grayson was really dead. For now, he decided, he’d assume the best. Behind his mask he smiled a skeleton’s grin.

Sayonara, sucker. You got what you damned well deserved.

Chapter 4

Blam!

Pescoli watched in horror as Grayson’s body jerked spasmodically, then spun, his Stetson flung off his head, the pieces of wood that had been in his arms flying into the air to land in the snow. “No!”

Blam! Another shot blasted through the valley, this time as he was falling. His head snapped forward as he fell, reeling.

“No, no! Oh, God, no!” Horrified, Pescoli gunned her rig to the parking area, then slammed on the brakes, so that the Jeep skidded to a stop between Grayson and the area from which she thought the shots originated.

Keeping low, she moved over the center console and across the seat, to open the far door and drop to the ground next to Grayson as the engine continued to run, the wipers still scraping snow from the windshield. Automatically dialing her cell for assistance, with one hand, she yanked her sidearm from its holster and scanned the terrain. Watching Grayson’s dog take off like a black bullet through the snow, she screamed into her phone, “Officer down!” as the emergency operator answered. What the hell happened here? Moving instinctively, her gaze scouring the thickly forested terrain, she identified herself and the victim. “I’m at Sheriff Dan Grayson’s cabin up on Spangler Lane,” she stated, then rattled off the nearest cross street. Half expecting another rifle shot, with all her senses on high alert, she fell to her knees at Grayson’s side.

Oh, God, he looked bad.

So gray. Barely breathing.

She wondered if the assailant was still nearby, if, even now, he was aiming his weapon again. Or had he done what he intended and taken off. From the sound of it, Grayson’s dog was giving chase to something, most likely the would-be assassin.

Get him, Sturgis. Run that bastard to the ground and rip his frickin’ throat out.

Her thoughts were brutal as she turned her full attention to the sheriff. His face was ashen, blood turning the snow an ominous red. “Sweet Jesus.” Was he dead? For the love of God . . . Fully dressed, he lay on the snow, bareheaded, his gaze fixed to the sky, blood pumping from beneath his collar to drizzle down his neck to the icy ground. “Grayson? Can you hear me?” she said loudly. Oh, Jesus, please respond. Come on, Grayson. Don’t die . . . don’t you dare die . . . you just can’t. Dropping her sidearm, still on the phone, Pescoli found the pulse at his neck, beneath the trickle of red. “He’s got a pulse,” she said to the operator, hope rising a bit. “Not strong, but a pulse.” To the sheriff, she added, “Dan! Stay with me! Can you hear me? Sheriff!”

Who would do this? Who would gun down a good man like Grayson. Far too many. He’s a lawman. A target.