by Lisa Jackson
READY TO DIE
He sorted through the other pictures until he came up with the still shot of Regan Pescoli. She, too, was looking at the camera, never knowing she was being photographed. That was the beauty of high tech and cell phones.
“You’re up,” he said to the photograph and felt his blood sizzle a bit at the thought of bringing her down. One shot, right between the eyes. That would do the trick.
Glancing at the clock mounted over his old desk, he realized he had to dress quickly and leave. Hours and minutes and seconds were passing.
His actions were being monitored, he was certain of it, so he had to be more careful than ever, couldn’t take the chance that someone might follow him.
Again he glanced at the round face of the old-fashioned clock, the very timepiece that had been in his father’s shop.
He had so much yet to accomplish and, as always, time was running out.
Especially for Regan Pescoli . . .
Books by Lisa Jackson
Stand-Alones
SEE HOW SHE DIES
FINAL SCREAM
RUNNING SCARED
WHISPERS
TWICE KISSED
UNSPOKEN
DEEP FREEZE
FATAL BURN
MOST LIKELY TO DIE
WICKED GAME
WICKED LIES
SOMETHING WICKED
WITHOUT MERCY
YOU DON’T WANT TO KNOW
Anthony Paterno/Cahill Family Novels
IF SHE ONLY KNEW
ALMOST DEAD
Rick Bentz/Reuben Montoya Novels
HOT BLOODED
COLD BLOODED
SHIVER
ABSOLUTE FEAR
LOST SOULS
MALICE
DEVIOUS
Pierce Reed/Nikki Gillette Novels
THE NIGHT BEFORE
THE MORNING AFTER
TELL ME
Selena Alvarez/Regan Pescoli Novels
LEFT TO DIE
CHOSEN TO DIE
BORN TO DIE
AFRAID TO DIE
READY TO DIE
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
LISA JACKSON
Ready To Die
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
READY TO DIE
Also by
Title Page
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
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Tick. Tick. Tick.
He was losing time.
Losing daylight.
The sun, threatening to set early this time of year, was disappearing behind a mountain ridge, the last cold shafts of light a brilliant blaze filtering through the gathering clouds and skeletal branches of the surrounding trees.
He felt the seconds clicking past. Far too quickly.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
By rote, with the precision he’d learned years before in the military, he set up in an open area that would allow a clean, neat shot.
Not that the bitch deserved the quick death he planned to mete. He would prefer she suffer. But there was no time for waiting. His patience was stretched thin, his skin starting to itch in anticipation.
He knew her routine.
Sighting through his scope one last time, he waited, breath fogging in the air, muscles tense, a drip of sweat collecting under his ski mask despite the frigid temperatures.
Come on, come on, he thought and felt a moment of panic. What if today she changed her mind? What if, for some unknown reason—a phone call, or a visit, or a migraine—she abandoned her yearly ritual? What if, God forbid, this was all for naught, that he’d planned and plotted for a year and by some freak decision she wasn’t coming?
No! That’s impossible. Stay steady. Be patient. Trust your instincts. Don’t give into the doubts. You know what you have to do.
Slowly, he counted to ten, then to twenty, decelerating his heartbeat, calming his mind, clearing his focus. A bird flapped to his right, landing on a snow-covered branch, clumps of white powder falling to the ground. He barely glanced over his shoulder, so intent was he on the area he’d decided would be his killing ground, where the little-used cross-country ski trail veered away from the lake, angling inward through the wintery vegetation.
This would be the place she would die.
His finger tightened over the trigger, just a bit.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
And then he saw her. From the corner of his eye, a tall, slim figure glided easily on her skis.
Good.
Reddish hair poked out from beneath her ski cap as she skied, ever faster. Recklessly. Dangerously. Tall, rangy, and athletic, she wound her way closer. She’d been called “bullheaded” and “tenacious,” as well as “determined.” Like a dog with a bone, she never gave up, was always ready to fight.
Well, no more. He licked his lips, barely noticing how dry they were. A hum filled his mind, the familiar sound he always heard before a kill.
Just a couple more seconds . . .
Every nerve ending taut, he waited until she broke from the trees. His shot was clear. She glanced in his direction, those glacial bluish eyes searching the forest, that strong chin set.
As if she sensed him, she slowed, squinting.
He pulled the trigger.
Craaaack!
With an ear-splitting report, the rifle kicked hard and familiar against his shoulder.
Her head snapped backward. She spun, skis cutting the air like out-of-kilter chopper blades.
She dropped dead in her tracks.
“Bingo,” he whispered, thrilled that he’d brought her down, one of the most newsworthy women in all of Grizzly County. “And then there were five.”
Just as the first few flakes of snow began to fall, he shoved hard on his own ski poles, driving them deep into the snow, pushing himself forward. In easy, long strides, he took off through the trees, a phantom slicing a private path into the undergrowth deep within the Bitterroot Mountains. He’d lived here most of his life and knew this back hill country as well as his own name. Down a steep hollow, along a creek and over a small footbridge, he skied. The air was crisp, snow falling more steadily, covering his tracks. He startled a rabbit a good two miles from the kill site and it hopped away through icy brambles, disappearing into the wintry woods.
Darkness was thick by the time he reached the wide spot in the road where he’d parked his van. All in all, he’d traveled five miles and was slightly out of breath. But his blood was on fire, adrenaline rushing through his veins, the thought of what he’d accomplished warming him from the inside out.
How long he’d waited to see her fall!
Stepping out of his skis,
he carefully placed them inside the back of his van with his rifle, then tore off his white outer clothing. Ski mask, ski jacket, and winter camouflage pants, insulated against the stinging cold, were replaced quickly with thermal underwear, jeans, flannel shirt, padded jacket, and a Stetson—his usual wear.
After locking the back of the van, he slid into the vehicle’s freezing interior and fired up the engine. The old Ford started smoothly, and soon he was driving toward the main road, where, he knew, because of the holidays and impending storm, traffic would be lighter than usual. Only a few hearty souls would be spending Christmas in this remote part of the wilderness where electricity and running water were luxuries. Most of the cabins in this neck of the woods were bare-bones essentials for hunters, some without the basics of electricity or running water, so few people spent the holidays here.
Which was perfect.
At the county road, he turned uphill, heading to his own cabin, snow churning under the van’s tires, spying only one set of headlights before he turned off again and into the lane where the snow was piling in the ruts he’d made earlier. Yes, he should be safe here. He’d ditch this van for his Jeep, but not until he’d celebrated a little.
Half a mile in, he rounded an outcropping of boulders and saw the cabin, a dilapidated A-frame most people in the family had long forgotten. It was dark, of course; he’d left it two hours earlier while there was still daylight. After pulling into a rustic garage, he killed the engine, then let out his breath.
He’d made it.
No one had seen.
No one would know . . . yet. Until the time was right. Carrying all of his equipment into the house, he then closed the garage door, listening as the wind moaned through the trees and echoed in this particular canyon.
In the light from his lantern, he hung his ski clothing on pegs near the door, cleaned his rifle, then again, as the cabin warmed, undressed. Once he was naked, he started his workout, stretching his muscles, silently counting, breaking a sweat to a routine he’d learned years ago in the army. This austerity was in counterbalance to the good life he led, the one far from this tiny cabin. His routine worked; it kept him in shape, and he never let a day go by without the satisfaction of exercising as well as he had the day before.
Only then did he clean himself with water cold enough to make him suck his breath in through his teeth. This, too, was part of the ritual, to remind him not to get too soft, to always excel, always push himself. He demanded perfection for himself and expected it of others.
As his body air-dried, he poured himself a glass of whiskey and walked to the hand-hewn desk attached to the wall near his bunk. Pictures were strewn across the desktop, all head shots, faces looking directly at the camera . . . his camera, he thought with more than a grain of pleasure.
He found the photograph of the woman he’d just sent to St. Peter, and in the picture she was beautiful. Without a trace of her usual cynicism, or caustic wit, she had been a gorgeous woman.
No more. Tossing his hunting knife in the air and catching it deftly, he smiled as he plunged its sharp tip into the space between his victim’s eyes. So much for beauty, he thought as he sliced the photograph. Staring at its marred surface, he rattled the ice in his drink and swept in a long swallow.
“Bitch,” he muttered under his breath.
Turning his attention to the remaining five photographs, he felt his insides begin to curdle. God, he hated them all. They would have to pay; each and every one of them. But who would be next?
Sipping from his glass, he pointed at the first with the tip of his knife and moved it to the others. “Eeny, meeny, miney, mo . . .” But before he could continue and make his selection, his gaze settled on one face: Stern. Brooding. Contemplative. With a hard jaw and deep-set eyes. In that instant, he knew who his next target would be.
Dan Grayson.
Make that Sheriff Dan Grayson.
“Merry Christmas,” he said to the photograph as the wind picked up and rattled the panes of the old building. With his new target in mind, he took the last swallow from his glass and felt the whiskey warm him from the inside out. Deep in his heart he’d known all along that Grayson would be next.
He hoped the bastard was ready to die.
Grayson snapped off the lights of his office and whistled to his dog, a black Lab who had been with him for years. “Come on, boy.” With a groan Sturgis climbed to his feet and, tail wagging slowly, followed Grayson through the hallways of the Pinewood Sheriff’s Department.
The cubicles and desks were gratefully quiet tonight, the staff composed of a few volunteers like him, who had elected not to celebrate with their families so others could be with their loved ones.
“You outta here?” Detective Selena Alvarez asked. She was huddled over her desk, computer monitor glowing, a cup of tea cooling near her in-basket.
“Yeah.” He glanced at the clock. It was ten minutes after midnight and already a few of those who had either agreed to or who had drawn the short straw were arriving. “What about you?”
“Hmm. Soon.” She threw a glance over her shoulder and he noticed how her black hair shined under the fluorescents suspended overhead. As smart and dedicated as anyone in the department, Alvarez had proved herself time and time again on the field of duty, yet he knew little more about her than what was listed on her résumé.
He’d been sure to keep it that way. She had a haunted, secretive demeanor about her, and he’d been tempted to dig a little deeper into what made her tick, then had thought better of it. She’d been interested in him; he wasn’t so unaware not to recognize chemistry and attraction when it snuck up on him, and he’d considered returning the favor but had stopped himself. Business and pleasure didn’t mix, and he wasn’t ready to start a serious relationship again, even though his most recent divorce had been years earlier. But the sting of Cara’s betrayal had cut deep and now, with Alvarez, the opportunity had passed. His second marriage had barely lasted a year, again because Cara had never really been out of the picture, and though Alvarez may have thought she was falling in love with him, it was probably just a bit of hero worship on her part, unfounded, of course. He’d certainly felt her heightened interest, but before he’d reciprocated, she’d become involved with someone else, which was, he knew, best for all.
Still . . .
“Merry Christmas,” he said and sketched a wave.
“You too.” Her smile, so rare as to be almost nonexistent, touched a private spot in his heart. With a nod, he turned away. His dog at his heels, he flipped up his collar, yanked on his gloves, and walked the length of a long hall decorated with twinkling lights and silvery snowflakes, compliments of an overzealous secretary who took the holidays seriously.
Grayson barely noticed. His thoughts were still muddled and dark, all knotted up with images of Alvarez huddled over her desk. Silently, he wondered if he’d made a big mistake; the kind that could alter a man’s life. She’d almost died recently and he was just grateful that she was alive.
His steps slowed and he looked back down the hall. Maybe this was the moment to take that extra step and learn what she was about, see if there really was something smoldering there . . . maybe . . .
He caught himself and resumed walking, his footsteps sharper. “Stupid,” he muttered under his breath, giving himself a quick mental shake as he shouldered open the exterior door and stepped into the cold Montana night.
Aside for a few hours with his ex-sister-in-law and his nieces, he’d spend Christmas alone, he thought with a grimace.
It wasn’t the first time.
And probably wouldn’t be the last.
Chapter 2
“I said, ‘I want for us to be together. Forever.’ ”
Standing in front of the woodstove in his old cabin, Nate Santana reached into the front pocket of his jeans and withdrew a small, velvet box.
“Oh, Jesus.” Regan Pescoli stared at the tiny box as if it were pure poison. She even took a step backward, but it didn’t s
top him from dropping down onto one knee, opening the box, and holding it in his palm, the diamond ring within winking against white satin. Tears filled her eyes, burning, and reminding her of the sappy fool she was just under the surface of her crusty exterior. “You don’t . . . I mean, I can’t . . . Oh, Jesus.”
“Regan Pescoli, will you marry me?”
He looked up at her and her heart melted. Snow drifted against the windows, a storm brewing outside, but in this hundred-year-old cabin, it was just the two of them and Santana’s husky, who was sleeping on a rug in the corner of the room. “I guess I should have done this before I told you that I wanted you to marry me.”
“You mean, asked me first?”
“Yeah.”
“That would have been nice.” She tried to sound tough, to not allow him to see just how he’d touched her.
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“I know, I know . . .” She bit her tongue. The simple answer would be: “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!” before throwing her arms around him and crying happily as he placed the ring on her finger, then carried her into his tiny bedroom where they would make love all night long.
She blinked back that particular fantasy. Her life wasn’t simple. And this wasn’t a fairy tale. She was a woman, no, make that a detective, with two nearly grown children and two marriages in her wake. Her first husband, Joe Strand, also a cop, had died in the line of duty. They’d been college sweethearts and she’d gotten pregnant, hence the hasty, often-rocky marriage and her son Jeremy, as bullheaded and handsome as his father. Then there had been marriage number two to Luke “Lucky” Pescoli, a truck driver who was as charming as he was good-looking and with whom both kids were spending Christmas Eve this year. That marriage hadn’t lasted long either, but the result was worth it: her daughter, pretty, smart, back-talking Bianca who, at sixteen, still believed the world revolved around her.
Two strikes.
Could she take another?
