Atonement
Winter Austin
Avon, Massachusetts
Copyright © 2015 by Winter Austin.
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.
Published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.
www.crimsonromance.com
ISBN 10: 1-4405-9112-1
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-9112-9
eISBN 10: 1-4405-9113-X
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-9113-6
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © iStockphoto.com/Cameron Whitman
For the men and women who deployed while serving our country and came home with more than they left with. Nic’s story is yours.
Acknowledgments
First and always, to my Lord and Savior, who paid the ultimate sacrifice.
Much time and effort goes into writing a book, and many things get pushed aside and in some cases left undone. Yet my family managed to survive. My kids have a way of reminding me that my time with them is short, and though they drive me crazy at times, they always make me laugh and help me find ways to relax. I love ’em, and I love their willingness to learn new things, such as how to can produce from an overabundant garden. The summer of 2014 was memorable, to say the least.
For my husband, Shawn, who started a lifelong dream-come-true job as an Ag teacher and FFA adviser.
To Amanda, though our time was short, it was so very good. You’re still the best.
I would not be a complete author/writer if it weren’t for the dedication and tolerance of some special people. First, Rachel Leigh Smith, who has been the intrepid Zoe to my Wash. Not only did she make the mistake of introducing me to Doctor Who, but she got me sucked into IT Crowd and forever cemented my Nerd status. Welcome to the world of a published author.
Many thanks to Sue, whose knowledge of the inner workings of a sheriff’s department kept me on the up and up as best as I could.
To Julie Sturgeon, whose ability to fix my mistakes and bring out the best story possible has made our editor/author relationship so fun, I think she spoiled me. Editors are a picky lot, but somehow I managed to grab Julie’s attention and not let it go. I’m so thankful that we’re working together again on another project. Here’s to a lot more in the future.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Author’s Note
About the Author
More from This Author
Also Available
Chapter One
Once she looked into the lens, she embraced death.
Deputy Nicolette Rivers settled against the Remington’s cheek weld and peered through the Leupold scope. Five hundred yards away in a two-story farmhouse with chipped, white paint flaking off the wood siding, a domestic situation had turned volatile. For the first time in more than three years Nic was called on to use skills she’d hoped to never use again.
While the sheriff wanted to negotiate a peaceful end, he wasn’t stupid enough to keep Nic on the sidelines. He needed her eyes on the target: the out-of-control man standing over the cowering woman and her three children. Nic’s mouth drew into a thin line. She’d chosen this area for its lack of hostility and crime. Had chosen Nowheresville, Iowa, because there wasn’t a need for a former marine sniper.
Nic regretted putting her special skills on her résumé.“This is Rivers reporting in. I’m in position,” she said into her mic receiver.
“Go ahead,” Sheriff Hamilton replied.
The sheriff’s command post was on the opposite side of the house from her position. The abandoned truck made for a perfect spot. It was the right height from the bed to the roof, leaving her able to settle against the rusted frame and lean into her scope. And the huge, uncovered picture window at the back of the house gave her access to the hostage situation.
Nic rattled off the position of each person in the room, the layout as far as she could see, and what the subject was doing. All info the sheriff expected, knowing he’d use it as he negotiated. Inside the house, the man lifted a bottle of liquor to his lips and guzzled. His actions tugged up the bottom of the shirt and revealed more surprises. “Male subject … Dusty is drinking. He’s carrying a twenty-gauge and has a nine-millimeter tucked in his pants’ waistband. Do you copy?”
“Copy that, Rivers.”
Before the sheriff’s link fully closed, Nic heard a fellow deputy’s protests in the background. He’d been harassing Hamilton to be allowed to talk to the target—his cousin—and was denied. In fact, Deputy Doug Walker had been ordered to leave the premises before Nic hiked off to grab her rifle and get into position. Walker swore up and down his cousin would never in a million years hurt his wife and kids. Never.
Famous last words.
Nic blew air between her puckered lips. Another disgruntled husband taking matters into his own hands. She ground her teeth, popping her jaw. Even at 500 yards away, she could sense the tension flowing from the man. The Leupold put her right there in the middle of the action, minus the noise.
Dusty threw the now-empty bottle. His wife and kids recoiled; the younger of the bunch ducked her head into her mother’s neck. Words were exchanged between the adults; Dusty’s face turned a ripe shade of crimson. He waved the shotgun at the front of the house.
Suddenly he jerked straight as a board and then rotated. An ugly scowl crossed his face as he stomped out of sight.
“He’s left my visual.”
“Stay steady. He’s probably answering the phone.”
A bead of sweat slithered between Nic’s shoulder blades. More formed on her upper lip. She was roasting in full tactical gear. She should’ve set up the blind to protect her from the late September sun. But Hamilton worried the situation would escalate quickly, and he needed her on the rifle. The heat wave sweeping through Iowa hurled her back to the Afghan climate.
Don’t go there, Nic. Focus on the target with the bottle.
Target. Not Dusty. Old habits died hard. In the back of her mind, she knew that was a man inside the hou
se, a father and husband with friends, family, and coworkers. But in the course of the day, maybe the week, he’d lost it and decided holding his family at gunpoint sounded like a good idea.
She had to separate the situation from the personal aspect.
Shut it down, Nic. You weren’t trained to sympathize with the targets. He’s pointing a gun at children, endangering their lives. And that makes him a threat.
The truck creaked under her as she shifted her weight. She needed to kneel. If she stood for too long her back would start cramping from the weight of the Remington and being in a bent position.
Nic blew at a single stubborn strand of hair that had worked its way out from under her cap. How long had it been since the call came in? Two hours?
She needed water. Where the hell was a spotter when she needed one?
Inside the house, the wife’s head darted back and forth. She must be looking for a means of escape. Her desire was thwarted when the target returned to view, a cell phone pressed to his ear. Since Nic couldn’t hear the conversation, she assumed the sheriff had silenced his side of the comlink to keep her focused. The target pointed the shotgun at one of the kids.
“Damn,” Nic muttered.
His face graduated from dark red to purple dotted with white blotches. He pulled the cell away and screamed into the mouthpiece, then threw it at the window. The unit hit the glass, and a web of fractures blocked her view.
“Shit!” Nic lifted her head. “Male subject has obstructed my visual. Moving to secondary position on the other side of the house.”
“Move fast, Rivers. Situation is on a hair trigger.”
Nic hoisted the Remington onto her shoulder. In her previous trek around the property to find the perfect shooting position, she’d managed to find a good backup. Hooking her rucksack on her elbow, she hopped out of the back of the truck and ran.
The underbrush and brambles snagged at her pants. Recent rains had saturated the ground, and it squished under her boots. But nothing was stopping her. She wouldn’t lose an innocent on her watch.
“Rivers, be advised, I’m attempting to make contact again.”
“Copy.”
Nic ducked under a tree and shuffled to the spot looking directly at three small windows on the east side of the house. Falling onto her kneepads, she removed the tripod from her rifle and prepped the weapon for a kneeling position.
She brought her right knee up and planted her booted foot into the firmer soil. Bracing her right elbow on her thigh, she leveled the rifle at the window and adjusted her sights. Movement in A2—the first-floor second window—snagged her attention. Nic lined up with the window and saw the man. Her gut twisted. “Male subject spotted. He’s got the shotgun leveled.”
“Rivers, stand by.”
Deputy Walker’s fading hollers of protest rattled through Nic’s head. Oh hell! Sheriff Hamilton was thinking she’d have to put one in the subject.
Focus, Nic. Counting to five, she slowed her breathing. Her focus zeroed in on the image in the scope. Detach. Her breathing now matched the pace of her pulse, slow and steady. Embrace the death. It’s a good kill.
“Rivers, you’re clear to shoot. Do you copy?”
“Copy.”
Negotiations had broken down. Male subject was a risk. Nic’s finger curved around the trigger.
A brilliant flash inside of the house made her blink.
“Son of a bitch!” Hamilton’s exclamation hissed in her ear.
The subject pumped the shotgun and lifted it. In that split second, from about 600 yards, Nic took the shot and neutralized the threat.
Chapter Two
Three kids were orphans. They would be forever traumatized by their father killing their mother in front of them, and then Nicolette putting a bullet through his head, spraying his gore all over the wall next to him.
Nic slid down in her seat until she could just see over the dashboard of the sheriff’s Dodge truck. She’d be forever haunted by her deed and the furious, grief-filled reaction she’d received from her coworker for killing his cousin.
A swarm of reporters buzzed outside the department office. This was going to prove interesting to get inside without being assaulted by recorders and microphones. They’d either glorify her or fry her. And since she saw some Iowa City and Cedar Rapids news vans, most likely it’d be the latter.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got you covered.” Sheriff Hamilton punched the horn, scaring two cameramen blocking the driveway. “I think I just made one wet himself.”
Nic snickered and tugged her cap brim down. “I need a drink.”
“Tomorrow. Not with so many eyes on you.”
“Who appointed you to be my mother?”
“Rank.” He eased the Dodge around a haphazardly parked green sedan. “Who taught these yahoos how to park?”
Nic stared at the zipper of her department jacket. Nausea roiled in her gut. It had been too long since her last confirmed kill. She’d forgotten how the letdown after the adrenaline buzz left her feeling lousy. Deep inside, she could still hear the disappointed voice of the one who’d turned her into a stone-cold killer. She’d made a mistake, she’d allowed too much time, and now the wife was dead. A marine never second-guessed her orders.
Biting her tongue, she wiggled further out of sight and hugged her body. To hell with what the media or that disapproving voice thought. She did what she had to in order to save those kids. Regret churned in her chest. If only the order to shoot came sooner, the mother would still be alive.
“Kicking yourself while you’re down?”
“I didn’t come here to use deadly force.”
Parking the truck behind the office, Hamilton twisted in his seat; his gaze bored holes in her. The dual colors of brown and green reminded her of the spring prairie as the grass shook loose of its winter bonds. With a grunt, he swiped the side of his nose with his thumb. “It was a clean kill. I gave you the authorization. Might I add, it was a damn good shot, for what little you could see.” He pointed at the bloodsuckers. “They know jack. You did your job, and three kids are still alive.”
“You really know how to boost a woman’s self-esteem.”
“Who said I was giving a woman a pep talk? I thought was talking to the best sniper in the state.”
The only sniper in the state of Iowa capable of making that shot. At the last range quals Nic beat out the top state firearms instructor, who himself had been a Marine Scout sniper in his youth. This incident was going to leak into the national media, and then the real trouble would start.
Nic brushed a knuckle across her mouth. “We going inside, or sitting here all day?”
Hamilton’s brows made a V at her brush-off of his compliment, but he said nothing. Grunting again, he flung open the truck door and exited.
Nic watched him round the front of the vehicle. A new kind of regret took residence in her gut. Shane Hamilton was a great sheriff and a good boss. He never pried into her past, but treated her like he would any other deputy in the department, and gave her the space she had come to Eider to find. She should be grateful for his compliments. But too many years of trying to earn the respect of one man in her life had jaded her.
Nic peeked over her shoulder at the gathering reporters. Time to move. She popped the handle and bailed when Hamilton’s wide frame blocked the reporters’ view of her. She bolted through the department’s back door, the sheriff hot on her heels.
McIntire County Sheriff’s Department stank of aged wood and burnt coffee, but it was home. They marched down the hall, the sharp rap of their boots on the polished cement echoing through the corridor. Together, they entered the main area, designated for the deputies and officers on duty. The county attorney at the front of the room beckoned her toward the sheriff’s office.
As Nic headed to the right, another figure exited the office and paused in the doorway. She put on the brakes. Detective Con O’Hanlon from the Eider city police crossed his arms and eyed her.
Why was he
here?
They had crossed paths many times, which wasn’t hard to do when she lived a few miles from him. The first time they met was right after she moved here. She’d gone to the diner in Eider to hear something other than the wind whistling through the trees around her property. O’Hanlon, loaded with a slice of chocolate pie and his Irish charm, tried to sweet-talk her into a night out with him. She ate the pie and waylaid him with her newly granted badge.
That hadn’t stopped him. A little over a year later their departments had thrust them together for the first time on a special assignment, looking into why so many farmers in the area were finding their tractors abandoned in torn-up fields. They caught the culprits—a pair of teenage boys out joyriding and destroying expensive crop ground—and in a moment of weakness, or having just been worn down by his insisting, Nic agreed to one night out with him for the hell of it. She got cold feet. Like a coward, she jilted O’Hanlon on their date night.
Now O’Hanlon’s blue eyes darted to something behind her, then back to her. Nic caught the flicker and a riot broke out in her chest. Was he investigating her shooting?
Her throat constricted as she turned to the sheriff. “What’s going on here?” she whispered.
“When there’s a deputy-involved shooting, an investigator from the city police comes in. That way there’s no inconsistencies or cover-ups from our department. That’s the way the state wants it.”
How convenient that the person to do the investigation was the one man Nic had spent the better part of three years rebuffing his attempts at companionship. She scowled. “And has there ever been a deputy-involved shooting before?”
The lack of a response and Hamilton’s somber expression told her the answer.
Hoorah. I’m the first idiot to pull the trigger.
“You know the drill,” Hamilton said.
Yeah, she’d done plenty of these debriefings over the years. It still didn’t get any easier.
“No regrets,” he whispered.
Right, no regrets. Explain that one to The General.
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