by Dani Pettrey
He’d been part of the team that had extracted. The way Kat looked at him when she realized the truth of his role . . . If he’d had a heart, that would have broken it.
He was still her watcher, still had to follow her around, but she ignored him, even with her dying breath had refused to look at him.
“Who do we have here?” the sheriff asked as the deputy handed him over.
A thwack sounded and everything disappeared.
“Get down,” Ben hollered, dropping to the ground, covering Libby as the shot killed Rick, or whoever he was, instantly.
“Sniper,” Tom called, and panic ensued, everyone screaming and racing for cover.
Ben shuffled Libby behind the boathouse, shielding her from the direction the initial shot had come.
They waited, breaths labored, hands clutching.
He spotted Jim making a wide sweep of the perimeter, Tom moving in from the other side.
Twenty anxious, silent minutes later Jim and Tom returned.
“No sign of the shooter. No shells left behind. Nothing,” Jim said.
Libby sat numbly in the chair at the sheriff’s station as Ben handed her a cup of tea.
Her thoughts were so tangled. Why had Rick been there? Who’d killed him? And who’d killed Kat?
Agnes Grey bounded inside. “It’s here.”
They hunkered in Jim’s office as Agnes pulled out the microdot reader and Ben pulled the quote from Jim’s safe, where they’d stashed it before the race.
“Do you know how to use one of those?” Ben asked Agnes.
“No, but I know who can.”
“But Elliot—”
“Woke up this morning,” Agnes said with a smile.
Ten minutes later they were huddled in Elliot’s room with Tom stationed outside the door.
Elliot placed the slip of silk in the reader. “It’s a set of numbers,” he said.
“Numbers?” Libby frowned.
“5779261473941,” Elliot read.
“A phone number?” she asked.
Ben shook his head. “I think it’s too long.”
“Even with an international exchange?” Libby asked.
“Russia’s exchange is 7,” Elliot said.
“Whose is 5?” she asked.
Elliot thought a moment. “Colombia.”
“Okay, so probably not a phone number,” she said.
“Bank routing number?” Ben suggested.
“Perhaps,” Elliot said.
“Let’s write them out.” Libby grabbed her journal from her pack. “I always think better when I can see something.”
Elliot read off the numbers again and Libby wrote them down, separating the two sections where Elliot denoted a brief pause this time.
It took a little while, but then it hit her. “What about coordinates?”
Ben smiled. “Brilliant. I can’t believe I didn’t see that sooner.” He studied them, working out latitude and longitude, and discovered it led them to Yancey’s post office.
Within minutes they stood out front—Ben, Libby, and Jim.
Ben shook his head. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“You have Kat’s picture?” Libby asked Jim.
“Yep.”
Jim showed Kat’s photo to the postmaster, and he recognized her as having rented a P.O. box upon arriving in town. Fortunately he had a master key.
Opening the box they found a file.
Ben flipped through it.
“Please explain what I’m seeing?” Libby asked.
“Back at the station,” he said, realizing the horrific scope of what he was looking at.
Once there, he interpreted the files. “It’s evidence the Soviets have accomplished constructing what appears to be a vast number of suitcase bombs, they are planning to smuggle into the U.S. and detonate at key strategic locations.”
“Planning?” Libby said. “So they aren’t already here?”
“I pray not, or we’re looking at a terrorist attack beyond imagining.”
“What do we do?”
“Call the State Department.”
Libby pulled the card Doc Graham had given her from the State Department for Brandt Dawson, the agent who’d arrived in town after Kat’s death.
“I’ll call him,” Ben said.
“So Kat was trying to defect to the U.S. and brought intel so vital that the U.S. would have risked upsetting the Russians by letting one of their star athletes defect,” Libby said. “I can’t believe Brezhnev just signed the SALT II treaty with Carter when all the while they had this planned.”
“Politics and spies—both nasty,” Ben said.
TWENTY-ONE
The meet was set with Brandt Dawson from the State Department at the Yancey airstrip.
Ben couldn’t help but feel his past had come back to haunt him as they approached the airstrip. The suitcase bombs weren’t made of fusion weapons, but the compact size and theory behind them was frighteningly similar to the nature of what he’d worked on.
He thanked God that Kat had managed to get ahold of the Russians’ plans and that they’d be turned over to the authorities. He prayed they’d be able to thwart the plans and nothing so disastrous would ever be launched against the country he loved. He might not love the politics at play, but he loved his country.
The sun was full and bright, the air reaching a warm seventy degrees as the plane touched down.
They waited as it taxied to a stop, the cabin door opened, and the stairs folded down.
A man ducked his head out and signaled for them to come aboard.
Jim entered first, then Ben, and finally Libby.
The twelve-seater plane was impressive—leather seats, cocktail tables between the various groupings, a lavatory and rear compartment. Seemed too nice a plane for a government official to travel in, but maybe he had special ties. Or maybe the government had determined this handoff to be important enough they’d given him whatever he needed to get there as fast as possible.
“Please, take a seat,” Brandt said. “I owe you a great debt.”
The cabin door shut, and Ben looked up to find a second man standing beside it, gun in hand. “As does my country,” he said with a thick Russian accent.
“This is Alexi,” Brandt said, gesturing toward the man. “My Russian counterpart.”
Libby’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t understand.”
“I’ll take those.” Brandt pulled the file from Jim’s hand as Alexi aimed the gun at Libby’s head.
A turncoat agent. Disgust burned through Ben’s veins. How on earth was he going to get Libby safely out of this scenario? He tried the best play he had. “You have what you want, so we’ll be leaving now.”
“So you can tell the world what you uncovered and expose my identity,” Brandt said, pulling a gun of his own. “I think not. Kat tried that, and look where it got her.”
“She called you for help in defecting and you turned on her,” Libby said, outrage burning in her voice.
“I killed her. I turned, as you call it, decades ago.”
“And now?” Libby swallowed, her panicked gaze flashing to Ben.
“Now,” Brandt said. “We need you three to disappear.”
Libby scooted forward on the leather seat. “People know we are here.”
“So what? They’ll assume the big, bad Russians got you before you could reach me,” Brandt said. “I’ll play the sorrowful American agent mourning your loss.”
Ben inched his hand toward his weapon.
“Uh-uh,” Alexi said, yanking Libby from her seat and pressing the muzzle to her temple. “Hand it over.” He looked to Jim. “You too.”
Brandt collected their guns. “Let’s get this bird in the air,” he said to Alexi. “We’ll drop them off over the ocean somewhere. Unlike Kat whose death Dmitri screwed up, you three will never be found.”
“Dmitri?” Libby said. “Oh, you mean Rick?”
Brandt chuckled. “So you figured that out, but as you saw, ‘Ri
ck’ outlived his usefulness.”
“You’re a monster,” Libby spat.
“Perhaps, but I’m a very well-paid one.” He indicated for Alexi to release Libby and head to the cockpit. “I’ve got it from here.”
Alexi shoved Libby toward her seat as he moved for the cockpit. Ben kicked his leg out, tripping her. Brandt’s gaze shifted momentarily, but long enough for Ben to lunge forward, knife drawn, stabbing Brandt in the chest.
Ben used Brandt as a shield, wrestling his weapon from him, aiming and firing at Alexi as he turned.
Alexi stumbled back and his gun fired, the bullet hitting Jim in the shoulder as he pulled Libby behind the seat in front of him.
Ben fired again, and Alexi dropped.
Libby sat on the back of the open ambulance, a blanket draped over her despite the warmer temps, her mind still scrambling to process everything that had happened.
Ben stashed the folder in the back of his pants, flipping his shirt over it until they could hand it over to the proper authorities.
“How will we know who we can trust?” She shook her head. “So many people weren’t who they seemed. So many let Kat down, me included. How am I going to live with that?”
“You didn’t know. You couldn’t have.”
“But I—”
“If this entire crazy situation has taught me anything, it’s that you can’t wade in the past. If you do you’ll eventually drown. I didn’t realize it, but I was drowning until I met you. Letting the past consume and jade me. I can’t control the outcome of what happened in the past, and I certainly can’t control the future. That’s God’s place.” He cupped her face in his hands. “God has reminded me again that while there are bad people, there are plenty of good ones. Yancey is full of them. People you can trust with your life. And you can trust me with yours. You know that, right?”
She leaned into his hold. “I do.”
“Ah, Libby . . .” He caressed her cheek. “I meant what I said. I was drowning until you came. You reminded me to keep my gaze above the waves. Now, give this burden you’re carrying to Jesus, let Him carry it so you can walk on the water.”
She clutched his hand in hers. “Only if you’re by my side.”
Keep reading for a special sample of Cold Shot by Dani Pettrey.
Excerpt from Cold Shot
1
Fog wafted over the silent hilltop, dancing in eerie waves amidst the centuries-old trees, the weathered trunks the sole markers of the lost graves littering the grounds surrounding them.
Shoving his frost-nipped fingers into his stiff jeans pockets, Angus Reed shifted his weight, trying to pump some warmth into his limbs. His cousin Ralph moved slowly, methodically, over the grid they’d compiled.
Gazing up at the slip of a moon glimmering behind the clouds, he whispered, “Come on. Stay out just a while longer.”
It was too risky to use any light other than the moon’s, even if it was the observant ranger’s night off. Angus shook his head. The man possessed a level of dedication and fastidious attention to detail the other rangers did not.
His leg twitched. The search was taking too long. “Anything?” They should have found it by now.
“Shh,” Ralph hissed. “I gotta concentrate.”
The twitching intensified. Concentrate quicker.
An owl screeched overhead, sending Angus’s heart racing. He caught a glimpse of its shadow disappearing with the moonlight into the thickening cloud cover.
“Maybe we should come back another night.”
Ralph’s detector hummed to life.
Angus smiled. He knew it. Too many men had died on this hill. Many left to rot in mass graves, even more unaccounted for—just like his great-great-great-grandpappy.
Why should that woman and her team get all the treasure just because they had a sanctioned dig? His kin died defending this hill. Why should some anthro-archaeologist or whatever she was swoop in and steal what belonged to the families of those lost?
Nah. He was taking what was his—a chunk of the history his kin helped shape.
The detector whirred to a fevered pitch at the base of a gnarled oak tree, and Angus’s shoulders slumped with hard-earned relief. About time.
“Told ya.” Ralph snickered. “Get the shovel—and some light.”
The thickening cloud cover left them no choice. They needed some light to work by. Resting the flashlight on the ground would hopefully limit the beam’s reach.
Clutching the handle, he cut into the earth. A foot down, the tip of his metal shovel twanged off a hard shock of resistance.
Ralph gaped at him with a tooth-filled grin. Angus couldn’t remember the last time he witnessed his burly cousin smile—the sight bringing the days of them as young ’uns running wild through the Pennsylvania countryside back with a whoosh.
Pulling a trowel from his bag, Angus aimed the light downward and set to work uncovering the source of resistance.
Griffin grabbed a flashlight from his desk drawer and slipped it into his belt loop. He preferred the stillness of night, nothing but the moonlight to guide his steps, but the moon had all but disappeared behind the burgeoning blackness of sky about to let loose with rain. Hopefully he’d get his rounds in before it started. Leave it to Hank to get married on a cold, soon-to-be very wet, November night.
Not that he minded swapping shifts. In fact, he far preferred patrolling the park after hours, without the usual throng of tourists—just him and the battles’ casualties sharing the hallowed ground. He’d drive the necessary perimeter, then park behind Devil’s Den and climb to his favorite lookout, which afforded him the best surveying spot outside of the tower.
His gun in his holster, he shrugged on his coat and zipped it up. Grabbing his hat off the hook by the station door, he stepped out into the brisk night. The air was thick and held the promise of rain, the fresh scent tantalizingly close.
Clearing the lower grounds, he made it to Devil’s Den before the rain began. After parking his car, he took off on foot from the boulder-strewn area, heading for Little Round Top. Yes, there was a road winding around the back side of the hill famous for the 20th Maine’s heroic standoff, but driving took the fun out of it. This time of year he was likely to see deer—even bats if he was silent enough—blending in with the darkness.
Cresting the rise, a faint glow caught his attention.
Halting, he listened.
Two muffled voices.
He crept closer, pulling his weapon. Vandals or relic hunters, most likely. Either way he wasn’t approaching multiple unknowns unarmed.
“There it is!” a man hollered.
“Keep digging,” a second man responded.
Griffin’s jaw clenched as the men and the grave they were desecrating came into view.
“Looks like we found ourselves a soldier and some fine artifacts.”
Griffin clicked on his flashlight, holding his weapon steady. “Oh, I’d say you found yourselves a whole lot more than that.”
Finley’s phone vibrated against her rib cage.
Please be an out.
Slipping it from her clutch nestled tightly between her body and the stiff chair arm in the darkened concert hall, she glanced at the number and recognition dawned.
Ranger McCray? Seriously? At nine o’clock on a Saturday night? The man really had no life outside of work. She looked over at the date her mother had set her up on and winced. Actually, she was only pretending at one. Had been ever since . . .
Blackness flashed before her eyes, and then the shining light. She blinked, her chest tightening, her palms moistening.
No. Not now. Not surrounded by all these people. Please.
Nauseated terror sloshed over her in a clawing rush, frustration and irritation following. How could it come on so fast?
Do the stupid breathing thing.
Sucking in what was supposed to be a deep inhale, her rib cage barely inched up, but she focused on the stage before her and forced herself to release the piti
ful amount of air slowly, like a balloon squeaking out tiny spurts as it deflated. One, two, three, four.
She let the memory of panic drop, or at least pretended to. She was getting good at that—pretending. But she had no choice. She refused to let the world see what a mess she’d become. Least of all, a ranger who was too uptight for his own good—or anyone else’s.
At least with Ranger McCray what you saw was what you got. He didn’t tiptoe around her, which was refreshing, but then again, he didn’t know. Though she doubted it would make a difference. The man possessed no filter, no sense of pretense, which she admired . . . at least half the time. The other half she wanted to throttle his ridiculously handsome neck.
God was using McCray and their time together as a test. She’d sensed it the first time they met, but it was a test she’d ignore. Despite what God thought, she was anything but ready for it.
Her phone vibrated again in her palm, and she looked back to it. Clicking on the voice message, she held it to her ear, attempting to ignore the offended looks of the other concert patrons.
“Ms. Scott,” Ranger McCray began with that tone—his nerve-pricking emphasis on Ms., which burrowed under her skin. How many times had she asked him to call her Finley?
“This is Chief Ranger McCray from Gettysburg National Military Park.”
Like she didn’t know who the infernal man was. If she’d had any idea the planned three-month dig would run so far past estimated completion, that she’d be forced to endure his brooding and incessant lectures about disturbing hallowed ground over and over, she never would have applied for the grant in the first place. It seemed a safe enough job. Controlled. Helpful. Just how she needed to spend her summer. But she hadn’t foreseen Ranger McCray or the feelings he stirred—both the good and the bad.
“We’ve got a . . . situation. Could use your expertise. Come as soon as you get this.”
What possible situation could he have with an archaeological dig at a Civil War battlefield at nine o’clock on a Saturday night?
He, of all people, would manage to find one.
