Copyright © 2018 Amanda McKinney
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-7324635-1-6
eBook ISBN: 978-1-7324635-0-9
Editor: Jennifer Graybeal
Contents
Also by Amanda McKinney
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
About the Author
Also by Amanda McKinney
Lethal Legacy
The Woods (A Berry Springs Novel)
The Lake (A Berry Springs Novel)
The Storm (A Berry Springs Novel)
Devil’s Gold (A Black Rose Mystery, Book 1)
Hatchet Hollow (A Black Rose Mystery, Book 2)
Tomb’s Tale (A Black Rose Mystery Book 3)
Evil Eye (A Black Rose Mystery Book 4)
Sinister Secrets (A Black Rose Mystery Book 5)
Dragon’s Breath (A Black Rose Mystery Book 6)
Skull Shore (A Black Rose Mystery Book 7)
And many more to come…
THE STORM is the *Winner of the 2018 Golden Leaf for Romantic Suspense, a *2018 Maggie Award for Excellence Finalist, a *2018 Silver Falchion Finalist, a *2018 Beverley Finalist, and a *2018 Passionate Plume Honorable Mention Recipient.
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For Mama
PROLOGUE
Gasping for breath, he awoke to total darkness.
Was he dead?
No… no. Not yet.
His heart raced as a shiver swept over him. He was soaked in sweat, his hair, his body, even his feet. He took a deep breath and shut his eyes.
Another bad dream.
It was just a dream... right?
The thought that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t pulled him out of his midnight daze as if he’d taken three shots of espresso. His body tensed from head to toe as he listened, staring into the blackness that surrounded him. The night was still, quiet, except for his pulse thrumming in his ears. He wiggled his toes, mentally scanning his body for any pain, injury or binds as he had done many times over the last week—every time he’d awoken from yet another nightmare.
Every time he’d thought finally, finally, he’d been caught.
They would come. Crimes as heinous as the one he was committing always came to light. Yes, they would find him. He knew it with every breath he took. It was only a matter of time.
The thought of spending the rest of his life in prison horrified him. Years, decades, being locked in a six-by-eight cell, a windowless cage, confined to a life without freedom until the powers that be decided it was time to spend eternity in hell.
Just the thought had his chest squeezing. A rush of panic that took his breath away.
He ripped off the covers, once warm with comfort, now a heavy restraint holding him down.
Goddammit!
He clenched his jaw as raw anger spurted through his system. Goddamn claustrophobia. Damn his step-father. Damn all the hours he’d spent hiding in his postage-stamp-sized closet while his dear step-daddy beat the living shit out of his mom. Hours. To this day, the scent of laundry sheets made him sick.
He threw his legs over the side of the bed.
The screams—his mother’s screams—still haunted him, all these decades later. Funnily enough, though, seeing his mother getting abused was worse than when his step-father would beat him. Good for her for leaving the son of a bitch.
He squeezed his face at the ache in his shoulder—a constant reminder of that night. The night the bastard broke his nose, then threw him down the stairs, dislocating his shoulder. He was eight years old. Damn thing never healed back correctly. But that was the end of it. His step-dad was hauled off to prison, only to die from a heart attack nine months into his sentence.
Not even his step-dad could handle the cage.
He inhaled deeply. Not only wide awake, he was agitated now. Pissed off. And he knew exactly how to release his frustration.
He pushed off the bed, his bare feet hitting the cold floor beneath him. He straightened, his back feeling as stiff as a wooden plank. He grabbed his gun, paused, then grabbed the spare he kept under his pillow for good measure. Never can be too prepared.
Shirtless, he silently padded across the hardwood floor. The cool air sent goosebumps prickling over his sweat-slicked skin.
He passed the light switch. He’d gotten used to not having a light after the sun went down—another precaution he’d taken over the last week.
They can’t get you if they can’t see you.
He still wasn’t sure why he’d done it. A culmination of things, really. After his bitch boss fired him, he went into a drug-induced haze and took to the woods, walking the trails day and night. That’s when he saw her. Her long, brown hair—he’d always been drawn to brunettes—and her fit, toned body. She jogged at the same time, every morning. He watched her day after day and slowly, she began to consume his thoughts, while he slept, while he ate, while he jacked-off to Cinemax. Then, one day, while cranked out of his mind, he broke into a pharmacy on the outskirts of town, and that’s when it all began. On a high, he drove to the woods and waited for her at the trailhead. With her headphones on, she jogged up to her car, not even noticing him parked ten feet away. As she bent over to stretch those sexy quads, he pulled her into his van. It was the biggest thrill of his life. What he did to her that first night… Forget the drugs, he was addicted to the thrill. The rush. The adrenaline of listening to her scream for her life.
Three days later, one became two. Two times the pleasure, everyday.
And he was about to feel that sweet rush of adrenaline again.
He cautiously stepped out of the bedroom and looked around the small, three-room shack. A bedroom, living room, kitchen and, most importantly, the underground cellar outside. The house was a piece of shit by anyone’s definition. That was the negative. The positive was that it was out in the middle of nowhere, nestled underneath a canopy of trees. No one traveled that deep into the mountains. No one but hunters, which one could say he was.
He paused at the doorway, listening, then tip-toed through the darkness to the cracked kitchen window and peered out. It was a moonless night, black as coal. Good. After he was confident no one was lurking in the shadows, he slid one gun onto the counter, but kept the other and slowly opened the back door. He scanned the woods, listening, again.
God, it was dark.
He waited for a good minute, then stepped onto the grass and silently closed the door behind him. His heart pounded in anticipation as he swiftly took the seven steps to the grass-covered cellar. By the time he reached the door, he was already aroused.
Yes, this is exactly what he needed to blow
off some steam.
He grabbed the keys from his pocket, and as he unlocked each chain, a smile crossed his face. He could practically feel their fear.
He was rock-hard as he pushed open the heavy cellar door. He wrinkled his nose as cool, damp air and a few flies wafted out of the hole. It smelled like sweat, urine, and blood. He loved it. He loved the grotesque odor that radiated off them, which had intensified significantly the last few days.
The sound of shuffling the moment he stepped inside had a wicked grin spreading across his face. He shut the door, slid the bolt into place and pulled the chain to the single light bulb on the concrete ceiling.
An orange light washed over the small space where his two prisoners stared back at him with wide, fearful eyes. They sat naked against the wall, their arms dangling above their heads, their wrists chained to the ceiling. Dried blood streaked their arms from where they’d attempted to rip their hands away. They’d both put up quite a fight at first, and he’d gained a new respect for trail runners. Their legs were bound at the ankles, speckled with dirt and blood. Their pale skin highlighted the red ribbons he’d cut across their bodies. He liked to see the blood pop through the skin; he liked the way they trembled as he cut just a little deeper, but not quite deep enough to get messy. He liked the way the blood smelled and smeared against his skin as he had his way with them.
He felt a tingle in his pants as he zeroed in on Blue—that’s what he’d named her. Her hair was so dark he swore it had a blue tint, and her eyes, the color of chocolate.
Panic sparked in her eyes as she met his gaze.
He set down his gun, lifted the Russian flag that covered his tools, and grabbed the six-inch serrated hunting knife. A rush of adrenaline began to pump through him, the blood funneling between his legs as he looked back at her. He wanted to make her scream, again, and again, as she’d done only hours before.
Then, maybe he’d be able to sleep.
Feeling like he was already about to explode, he began to walk across the room when—
Thud, thud, thud.
His eyes shot to the ceiling.
Thud, thud, along the side now. Footsteps. Thunderous footsteps.
His heart dropped to his feet.
Oh, God, they were here.
He lunged for his gun and pointed it at the women.
“You make one fucking noise, I’ll blow your heads off,” he hissed. And then his, he thought, before they could stick him in a concrete box.
Panic ran like ice through his veins as the world went silent. Completely, utterly silent.
A second ticked by… then, a minute.
Maybe he was crazy? Maybe he was hearing things?
“Help! In here, hellllllp!” His prisoner's shrill scream startled him.
Pop!
“No!” The other screamed.
Pop! Pop!
His mouth gaped, and he froze, staring at the convulsing women spewing blood in front of him.
BAM!
He whipped around.
BAM! The lock on the door wobbled.
His heart stopped, his breath stopped.
Do it, he thought. Do it, you coward! He lifted the gun to his face and inserted the barrel into his mouth. His heart skipped wildly in his chest as he turned and faced the door. He wanted the bastards to see him do it. He wanted his brain splattered all over their pig faces.
The cellar door burst open and with a grin as pure evil, he squeezed the trigger.
Click.
Bodies flew toward him. His face slammed into the cold concrete floor, pain bursting through his jaw. Blood filled his mouth.
Footsteps, shouts, it was all abuzz around him as they cuffed his hands and feet.
“Should’ve checked your bullets,” an officer snarled in his ear.
He’d only had three fucking bullets left in the gun. Three rounds he’d just pumped into his prisoners.
As they dragged him through the door, he heard—
“Bag his gun. It’s a .45 ACP. Matches the shells Wesley picked up at the range.”
His eyes grew wide with fury as the memory rushed into his head.
Wesley Cross.
CHAPTER 1
Wesley looked down at the blood on his hands. He hadn’t bothered to wash them, hell, he hadn’t even thought about it, but now he wished he’d taken a quick second to do just that.
He rubbed his thumb over his palm, hoping the dried blood would erase away.
It didn’t.
The coffee pot gurgled and beeped. When Chief McCord had asked him to leave the scene and wait in his kitchen upstairs, he’d started a pot. He wasn’t sure why—nervous energy, he assumed. Or maybe it was a subconscious gesture to remind everyone that he was a nice guy and not someone capable of murdering his former lover in his basement. He hadn’t even considered that he would be the initial suspect until he’d seen the questioning look in the Chief’s eyes as he approached the scene.
A thin beam of moonlight shone through the window above the sink, sparkling off a kitchen knife he’d used earlier in the day. A wave of nausea washed over him. He rubbed his hands together again, the blood on his skin beginning to feel suffocating.
Jesus Christ, he needed a shower.
Underneath the table, he shuffled his cowboy boots, knowing that they were covered in blood, too.
It had happened so fast. So fucking fast. The blood… just seemed to drain out of her.
He felt his pulse begin to pick up with anxiety, an unfamiliar feeling for the fearless former Marine. He glanced at the digital clock glowing from the stove—almost one thirty in the morning. The chaos in the basement was beginning to die down, but there were still a number of uniforms swarming his home.
He clasped his hands together on the table and swallowed the knot in his throat.
“Wesley? You alright, man?”
His gaze lifted. He blinked and was pulled back to the moment. “Sorry. Yeah.” He looked at the recorder sitting in the middle of the table.
“Okay.” Detective Dean Walker sat across from him, a line of concern running across his tanned forehead. “We’re going to go through all this again. Remember, this will all be on record now. Everything you say, okay?”
Wesley nodded.
Dean put his finger on the record button, but then paused and leaned forward. “Sure you don’t need a second, man? Want to take a lap outside or something? Gather your thoughts?”
A small, appreciative smile crossed Wesley's lips. He’d always liked Dean; a hardworking, true southern cowboy, who was knee-deep in his first year as Berry Springs’s only detective. Friends for decades, Dean had helped Wesley build his shop when he’d started his own gun manufacturing business eight years earlier, and Wesley had returned the favor when he helped Dean solve the cold case of Dean’s father’s homicide using his ballistics expertise. They respected each other, and it was a relationship Wesley was sure glad he had in his current circumstance.
“No, I want to get this shit done.” He nodded toward the recorder. “Turn it on.”
Dean held up a finger—one minute—and pushed away from the table and walked to the liquor cabinet. He returned with a half-empty bottle of Johnny Walker Blue and handed it to him. Wesley unscrewed the top, took three gulps, then passed it back. After Dean took a shot, he cleared his throat, pressed the red button on the recorder and after rattling off all the mandatory bullshit about Wesley’s rights, he got to the questions.
“Let’s start from the beginning. Can you tell me where you were this evening?”
“Gino’s for dinner, then Frank’s Bar.”
“What time did you leave Frank’s?”
“’Round eleven thirty.”
“You go anywhere else?”
“No.”
“Straight home?”
“Yes.”
“What time did you get home?”
“Close to midnight.”
“Notice anyone or anything strange on your property?”
“No.”
“Were you looking?”
“Always.” A side effect of running special ops in the deepest depths of hell for nine years.
“Did you pass any cars or see any parked around your house?”
“No.”
“How about being followed?”
“No.” He was certain of that.
“Okay, so you got home, then what?”
“I parked in my usual spot, got out and noticed the basement door was cracked open.”
“You’re sure you shut and locked it before you left for the evening?”
He cocked his head with a look that asked, seriously?
Dean glanced at the recorder.
Wesley blew out a breath. “Yes, I locked up before I left.”
“Okay, go on.”
“I walked inside, searched the floor and that’s when I found her.” His gut clenched—what he should have said was that he smelled her first, then found her. That sweet, metallic scent of blood.
He looked down and shifted in his seat.
“What condition was she in?”
Wesley’s jaw twitched as he focused on a small nick in the shiny, wooden dining table. He’d built it himself out of the trunk of a massive oak tree that had fallen during last spring’s storms. It had taken him two months and more splinters than he could count. The table was perfectly imperfect with uneven edges and a dozen different shades of brown. Except for tonight. Tonight, it had smears of blood on it. He looked up and narrowed his eyes. “Her throat was slashed.” A heavy silence filled the room. “Fresh.”
“What makes you say that?”
“She was still pink, warm. The blood was still pumping out of her neck when I walked up.” He gritted his teeth and shook his head. “Minutes, Walker. If I had just gotten home minutes earlier…”
“Doesn’t do us any good to think like that, Cross. Keep going.”
Wesley nodded. “I kneeled down, looked her over, you know, and that’s when I heard the upstairs door slap shut.”
“Exactly how long from the moment you found her to when you heard that?”
“Maybe a minute. Maybe even less. So I went after him.”
The Fog Page 1
