by Michele Hauf
His cell phone rang, and he stepped around to the side of the cabin where the generator was protected from the wind.
“This is Robert Lane. Your dispatcher wanted me to check in with you.”
“Hey, Robert, good to have you in town.” Robert had helped out last fall when Alex had been sick for a week. The man preferred to move around St. Louis County, filling in, rather than settling in one station. He was good folk. “I’m currently at the Birch Bower cabin east of town,” Jason said. “The renter was the escaped perp’s target. I want to stay close. Did Marjorie get a trace on the call?”
“Not yet, but I’ve been looking over your escaped perp’s stats,” Randy said. “You’ve got an interesting one, Cash. Looks like a pro hit man. You say you managed to intercept his attack on a woman?”
“Yes. Actually, the victim held her own until I arrived. Surprises me if his stats are so deep,” Jason said. “A hit man right here in Frost Falls. Something’s not right with this situation. You talk to Ryan Bay?”
“Yes, and he was in contact with Interpol.”
“Did they provide information on Jacques Patron?”
“Gave Bay the runaround. Said the assistant director would contact him soon.”
“Seriously?” Jason toed the snowy base of the generator. “So he’s alive?”
“Interpol wouldn’t say anything more than they’d get back to him. Bay was swearing about it.”
“Strange. Well. Okay. I’ll, uh...” Think on that one when he was inside and warm.
“I’ll hold the fort here in town,” Robert offered. “Most of the county roads are closed. I don’t think anyone will be cruising around tonight, not even on a snowmobile. I might catch a few z’s later in the basement. You still got those cozy blankets down there?”
“You betcha. Thanks, Robert. Call me at any hour.”
“Will do.”
Jason hung up and leaned against the cabin wall. The flurry of snow whipping about darkened the air.
“A hit man,” he muttered.
Yvette’s boss had sent her out of the country until the heat blew over. Jacques Patron had then called the local police to warn them that his employee was in danger—and, in the process, he’d been silenced.
Or had he? Interpol said Patron would call them soon. Why hadn’t they patched him through to Bay when he’d called?
That weird instinctual creep at the back of his neck wouldn’t allow Jason to dismiss the boss as dead. Did Interpol really know where he was? Could the call to the station have been staged? To make it seem as though Patron was out of the picture? Because...he was involved and wanted to erase his tracks?
“I need to know what Yvette knows.”
But she didn’t know what she knew.
“This is crazy.”
* * *
AS THE WIND pummeled the windows in a fierce symphony, Amelie was happy to be spooning up hearty beef-and-vegetable soup with the sexy police chief. Inside, protected from the bitter chill. She hadn’t had company since moving here. And despite the reason for his presence, she found herself enjoying simple conversation about snowshoeing on bright winter days.
“The cabin does keep a good stock of outdoor gear,” she said when Jason asked if she had problems getting a good fit on the snowshoes. “The mudroom is filled with things like snowshoes, boots and helmets, fishing poles, and a strange long drill that I can’t figure out.”
“Sounds like an ice auger. There’s a lake eight miles south from here. Great ice fishing. I believe the cabin even puts up an ice house for its renters to use.”
“There might have been something about that in the information packet, but I’m sure I breezed over that detail. I’m not much for fishing for my supper. I’ll take a breaded, prepackaged hunk of cod any day. As long as it’s not been soaked in lye.”
“Oh, lutefisk. I love that stuff.”
Amelie gaped at him.
Jason chuckled and nabbed another roll from the plate and dunked it in his soup. “It’s an acquired taste.”
Dark stubble shadowed his jaw and emphasized the dimples in his cheeks that poked in and out as he chewed. And those green eyes. They were as freckled as the spots dotting the bridge of his nose. They appealed to her on a visceral level. Due to lacking sexual satisfaction of late—well, she was thinking about a few things she’d like to do with those freckles. Starting with touching each one. With her tongue.
“I challenge you to come out on the ice with me someday,” he said. “I bet I can make you a fan of ice fishing.”
“I do love a good challenge.”
“A woman fashioned from the same mettle as myself.” He winked at her.
Could she get swept off her feet by a mere wink? Most definitely.
His phone buzzed, and he tugged it out of a pocket to look at it. “Got a dossier from Marjorie earlier. It’s on the perp. I want to finish reading it and...we heard from Interpol.”
“Yes?” She leaned forward. If Interpol were actively involved now, she need no longer worry about remaining undercover and could very likely return home.
“Ryan Bay spoke to them. Sounded like they were unaware there were any issues with Jacques Patron. Said he’d contact us in a few days.”
Amelie let out an exhale. “He’s still alive?”
“Well.” Jason pushed his empty bowl forward on the table and clasped both hands before him. “You say you can’t make contact with him?”
“No.”
“But you’ve left messages?”
She nodded.
“Sounds like he’s avoiding you. If he is alive. And why make such a strange call to the station, and make it sound as though he’d been shot? And yet Interpol also thinks he’s alive. Something does not add up, Yvette. Amelie.”
“Just stick with Yvette.”
He winced.
Because it was easier for her to have him use her alias. Less personal. On the other hand, she could really use a confidant. Someone to trust.
“Maybe it’s time I checked in with Interpol,” she offered. “That should clear things up. But I know Jacques was keeping this situation dark. If he didn’t tell anyone...”
“And why wouldn’t he?” Jason leaned forward. “Unless the man is hiding something he doesn’t want anyone in Interpol to know about?”
Amelie gaped. A niggle of that idea had occurred to her, but she’d pushed it back, unwilling to believe that Jacques could be dirty. He’d worked so closely with her father. They had been good friends. Jacques Patron would never do a thing to harm her or her family.
“I’ll let you think about that one.” Jason stood. “Thanks for the meal.” He wandered into the living area and plopped down on the couch before the crackling fire.
Amelie caught her chin in hand. She didn’t want to think about it. But he was right. Something didn’t add up.
Gathering the dishes, she set them in the sink and rinsed them. A glance to her cell phone saw it was fully charged. To pick up the phone and try Jacques one more time?
He wouldn’t answer. She instinctively knew that. Which meant she had already fallen to the side of distrust for her boss.
It felt wrong. She had always been loyal to him and Interpol.
“You going to write up that list?” Jason called to her.
The list was the one thing that might hold a clue to Jacques Patron’s actions. She’d write it out and let Jason take a look at it. If that didn’t spark any clues, then she’d go over Patron’s head and call the director.
Amelie settled into the easy chair before the fire with a notebook and pen, but it was difficult not to notice the man sitting so close. He smelled like the wild outdoors. And he sent out crazy, distracting vibrations that she felt sure hummed in her very bones.
Jason looked up from his phone and asked, “You know the name Herve Charley?”
Startled out of her straying thoughts, she shook her head. “No. You said that is the name of the man who attacked me?”
“Yes. He showed me a license that identified him as James Smith. The real James Smith—let’s see... Marjorie dug up details on him—has been located in the Duluth hospital. He was attacked, nearly strangled. Has been in a coma for days.” Jason whistled. “I’ll have to call the investigator for that case ASAP. He’ll need to know what’s going on here. Anyway, our suspect identifies as a known hit man,” he read as he scrolled. “No known address in the past five years. But most recent activity has been noted right here in northern Minnesota. I suspect he might be tied to the Minnesota mafia. You ever hear of them?”
“No. Should I have?”
He shrugged. “Interpol knows things.”
“Not everything,” she replied with a touch of annoyance. He’d grown distant in demeanor since supper. Of course, the man had a lot on his mind. And police work was first and foremost. And yet, she needed to become an active part of this investigation. And the answers could lie in her placing the list onto the paper in her hands.
“Bunch of families in Minnesota all connected,” Jason continued as he scanned his phone. “Involved with a gang out of Duluth. We’ve got a family living nearby at the edge of the Boundary Waters that’s into all kinds of criminal endeavors. Poaching is their favorite.”
“Is that even a felony here in the States?”
“Misdemeanor. But they’re into a lot of stuff, including assault and transporting stolen goods. Charley has a list of crimes half a mile long, but all minor infractions. Never able to pin the big stuff on him. That’s how those guys work. Their lawyers are paid the big bucks.”
“So he’s a legitimate hit man?” Amelie leaned forward on the chair. “But that’s so—”
“Big? Serious? You bet it is. The Minnesota mafia is involved with some European big shots. They handle guns, ammunition, sometimes stolen art. That’s common for mafia families.”
Unable to focus on what Jason was currently musing over, Amelie raked her fingers through her hair. Because to think about it, why would someone send a hit man after her? For an invoice.
She tapped the pen on the blank notebook page. The list she had absently read was so much more. Did she want to know what it really was?
Yes.
Jason scrolled up on his phone. “The Minnesota mafia has strongholds in Marseille, Berlin and Amsterdam. There’s your French connection.” The man whistled and shook his head. Then he looked at her point-blank. “You sure you know everything that’s going on with this forced vacation of yours?”
“Apparently, I know very little. Jacques has all the answers.”
“Right. Jacques Patron, assistant director of Interpol, Lyon, France. Marjorie also sent a report on him.” He scrolled for a few seconds then swore. “Wi-Fi just gave out. Surprised it lasted that long. Can you put in a call to Interpol for me?”
“I intend to. But if the Wi-Fi is out...”
“Should still get cell service.”
He leaned over and placed a hand on her knee. “I need you to be smart and help me as much as you can.” His intense gaze pulled her up from a swirl of emotion, and she focused on those mesmerizing freckled green eyes. “You are strong and brave, Yvette. I saw that when I arrived to find you fending off the attacker. But now you need to stay strong and keep a clear head. Can you do that?”
She nodded. Gripping his wrists, she gently pulled his palms away from her face and yet didn’t let go of him. He was warm, and despite the crackling fire, she had begun to shiver.
“I can do that,” she said. “I just... Interpol’s lack of concern could mean many things. One, they know exactly what happened to Jacques Patron, but they are unwilling to divulge that information. Or they were not aware of a problem until your dispatch contacted him and they are looking into it.”
“I’m going with number one. Because they sure as hell would have noticed if their assistant director went missing a few days ago.”
She nodded, knowing that was the likeliest of the two. But that still didn’t answer another question: Was Jacques dead or alive? If he was dead, wouldn’t Interpol call her back in? Had Patron kept her leave a secret to the organization? If so, then that added another suspicious notch to his tally. “I don’t understand any of this, Jason. I’ll contact Interpol. We need to sort out the facts.”
“Thank you.” He waggled his phone. “But calls might not be possible right now. I just lost cell service. Until it comes back, if we can figure out what you know, that might help.”
“I’ve got the list right here.” She tapped her temple. “I’m sure I can get it out and onto paper.”
“Great. I’ll stoke the fire and you do what you need to do. Once you get that list written, I’m going to need you to talk to me about your work and anything you can think of that led up to you being sent to a remote cabin in the Minnesota Boundary Waters to hide. Deal?”
She clasped the hand he held out, wanting to not let go, to use it as an anchor as she felt the world slip beneath her. But instead Amelie sucked in a breath and gave him another affirmative nod. “Deal.”
Chapter Thirteen
Jason wandered down the hallway into the bathroom and splashed his face with water. He needed a shower, but he’d survive until morning. Heading out here during the storm, he’d known the options would be few regarding sleeping arrangements. He probably wouldn’t sleep much. If anyone who wanted to harm Yvette managed to brave the storm, then he dared them to. He’d like to stand against someone with such moxie.
Smirking, he tossed the towel into a hamper and shook his head. Had he been craving some action so desperately that he’d mentally invited a hit man to come at him?
A smart man would wish for a quiet night and a clear morning. With Bay holed up in a motel until the storm passed, Jason needed to get out there and search for the escapee. He didn’t like the unknown. He preferred to know every player’s position on the board. He was the knight protecting the queen. And somewhere out there the rook could still be lurking. He had to be. His mission to take out Yvette had failed. What sort of hit man walked away from an assignment after failure?
Jason had never walked away from failure.
Until he’d been forced to walk away or risk endangering so many more. It sucked that he’d left the CIA under such circumstances. And now being around Yvette, despite the fact she wasn’t an active field agent, stirred his blood for just such fieldwork. He had loved the job—working undercover, researching, tracking and surveilling, and finally apprehending and making an arrest. On more than a few occasions, his objective had been to eliminate a target. His sharpshooting skills had not been exercised lately, but he was confident with his aim. Always.
Despite the mark against him, he’d served the CIA well. As he currently did as Frost Falls’ chief of police. Yet losing the perp could be counted as a failure. He should have been the one to take Herve Charley in for booking, and then stand guard.
Maybe he wasn’t cut out for this sort of police work?
He shook his head. Stupid thinking. He was just distracted, that was it. And the distraction—another beautiful spy—was his key either to solving this case or, once again, to ruining his career.
* * *
“IT’S FINISHED,” AMELIE SAID. “The list.” She nodded over a shoulder while wandering into the kitchen to meet Jason at the fridge. She’d left her pen and notebook sitting on the rug beside the easy chair. “You’ll have to look at it.”
“I will. You got anything to drink in here?”
“Beer and orange juice.”
“Beer will work.” He opened the fridge. “Now that you’ve written it out, do you have any idea what the list is for?”
“Like I said, I initially thought it was an invoice. But who kills for an invoice?”
“Not many, I figure.” Jason popped open a beer can and leaned against the counter. “You don’t know what it means?”
She shrugged. “It can be any number of things. Invoices would normally go directly to Accounts. So I have to believe it was either sent to the wrong email address or, if it was sent to me purposely—”
“It wasn’t sent to a wrong address. It freaked the hell out of your boss enough that he sent you out of the country. Someone sent that to you on purpose. Maybe because they knew your connection to Patron and that you would go to him with it.”
She rubbed her arms and gave it some consideration. Why would someone want to get to him and do it through her? “Then why not send it directly to Jacques?”
“When involving someone else can twist the screws a little tighter?” he prompted.
The suspicion in his voice troubled her. She hadn’t initially thought to suspect Jacques of any wrongdoing. Yet now, all clues pointed to that very real possibility.
“Can I ask what led you to working for Interpol?” Jason asked. “You said something about your parents working for the agency?”
“My dad was with Interpol. That’s how he met my mother.”
“She worked for them too?”
“No, she was a spy for the Russian FSB. I know, cliché. Not because she chose to, but because she was desperate to protect her family. Her father had been indebted to the Russian government, and he had some black marks against him that the government used to twist the screws. When he grew ill, my mother stepped in and did what she had to do. Which was whatever the FSB told her to do.”
“That’s tough. But sounds like it ended well? If they met and—she must have gotten away from the Russian government’s control?”
“My father helped make that happen. I wish I could tell you my parents lived happily ever after...” Amelie closed her eyes. Memories of that morning flooded back. Her father had been away on assignment. She had been nine.
