Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 99132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 496(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 496(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
The guy thrashed. Young, maybe twenty. Skinny but wiry. Brown buzzed hair, jittery eyes, twitchy hands. Probably juiced up on something besides caffeine.
“Walt!” Ena’s voice came from the porch—sharp, alert.
He looked up in time to see her sprint barefoot across the gravel in a camisole and sleep shorts, rain plastering her black hair to her shoulders. One of his handcuffs flew through the air. He caught it, still pinning the guy.
God, she looked good. Soaked, pissed, and hotter than hell. No makeup. Just raw beauty and a sharp mind that could cut through all the crap the world flung at a guy like a buzz saw.
He snapped the cuff onto one wrist, then the other, yanking the guy upright. “You picked the wrong address today, jackass.”
Paper fluttered in the air. Something charred and curled landed at Walter’s feet, partially soggy but still legible. He bent and picked it up. A scrap of what used to be an envelope. Inside, a half-burned note, blackened around the edges but clear enough in the center to make his gut tighten.
They’ll kill everyone, I’m afraid.
—Tyler
Walter’s fingers clenched around it. “Damn it, Tyler,” he muttered.
Ena stepped closer, her focus on the note. “What is that?”
He held it up. “A dead man’s warning.”
The rest of the mail was toast. Ashes smeared across the driveway and into the grass. Bits of carbon curled in puddles. He could make out part of a bank logo on one scrap and something that might’ve once been a jury duty summons. The only thing intact was Tyler’s note—and only because it had been sealed inside a plastic baggie.
Walter yanked the hoodie off his suspect’s head. “Name.”
“Screw you.”
Walter grabbed a handful of wet sweatshirt and dragged him toward the FBI replacement vehicle he’d requisitioned—an older green SUV parked at the curb. “I can work with that.”
The guy kicked, slipped, cursed all the way to the back of the rig. Walter flung open the hatch, shoved him inside, and slammed it shut. It wasn’t regulation, but it was effective.
Rain poured down. Walter wiped a hand across his face, mud streaking his jaw. His left knuckle throbbed. Probably bruised. Maybe cracked.
Ena stepped up beside him, arms crossed over her chest, a dark strand of wet hair stuck to her cheek. “You okay?”
He looked at her. Really looked. Wet camisole. Flushed cheeks. Barefoot in the gravel. The woman had just sprinted outside and helped him subdue a suspect without flinching. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m good.”
She raised an eyebrow, sharp and amused. “You look like you wrestled a pig.”
He glanced down at himself covered in mud, bleeding from one knuckle, soaked through. “Better-looking than a pig.”
“That’s debatable.” She smirked.
He glanced back at the ruined mailbox, now a smoking crater with a bent post and scorched weeds. “That was a good mailbox.”
“I’ll get you another one.”
He looked at her again. “Kekkon shite kurenai?” The words just burst out of him. Not planned. Probably not the right time.
She blinked. Standing in the rain, soaking wet, her body solid and strong. Her dark eyes studied him, searching for something he wasn’t sure he had. Finally, she spoke. “Hai, yorokonde.”
His mind shut down. What did that mean? He learned only so many of the words. Probably. “Um, that means yes?”
Her smile lightened the entire day. “Yes, Walter. That means yes.”
After a morning of having Huck Rivers cover her body from the truck to her own conference room, Laurel was ready to seek out the sniper herself. Sighing, she looked away from her backup laptop at the out-of-place tabletop. In the overhead lights, with all blinds in the office closed, it gleamed an incongruent teal color. The conference room had no windows and only one point of entry. It allowed for uninterrupted focus and eliminated unnecessary risk. She had no reason to believe the sniper would strike again soon, but she also had no reason to ignore the possibility.
She’d just ended a phone call with Agent Norrs. He had asked about three of her prior cases: a corporate fraud investigation out of Boise, a cold case abduction in Reno, and an identity theft operation that had crossed into medical records territory in Portland. None were connected, and none had led to active threats. The man sounded as if he hadn’t slept in days.
Laurel had already reexamined those cases when the sniper had first appeared on her radar. She had found no common thread. Either Norrs was grasping at patterns that did not exist, or he had access to information he was not prepared to share.
She made a note in her encrypted case file, flagged the call, and opened the subfolder on Melissa Palmtree. Taking a sip of her latte from Staggers, she dialed Dr. Ortega.
“Ortega,” he answered.
She assumed he’d be in the office early. “Good morning. It’s Agent Snow. I’m sorry to bother you, but—”