He searched for a landmark to regain his bearings. Figure out where to go.
A flashing blue light bounced off the house. The police were here. More would come.
Many more.
An enormous cloud of dust now filled the sky. Whatever had exploded had been big. Fuel drums stored in the barn probably.
More voices filtered in now. Somewhere behind, screaming. Pain or grief, he couldn’t tell.
There. A broken board, part of a plastic skull still attached. He shuffled to it, knelt, pushed himself up again, and wedged the wood under his left armpit. A makeshift crutch.
The white lights. Brighter now.
He shaded his eyes and squinted. Farm equipment. Lighting up part of the area. Smart move.
Needs to stop though. Going to run over someone if he gets much closer.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE
That’s him. The FBI agent wobbled but remained standing. Mason turned slightly right, placing the man dead center in his windshield. He switched on the sixteen-foot-wide front reel and set its speed at maximum. Broken corn stalks sailed through the air as the contraption shoved everything in its path toward the cutter bar, up a conveyor, and to the augers and threshing drum. Effective for grain. Probably make quite a mess with flesh and bone.
But as you sow, so shall you reap.
Large pieces of debris still fluttered to earth around the combine. Paper plates. Candy wrappers. Styrofoam cups. The concession stand must’ve been hit hard.
Mister FBI hadn’t moved. Had no idea what was coming. And once he figured it out, well, Mason played fair. The cab’s light remained on, illuminating the driver. If the man was fast enough, he could get off several shots. If not, the redhead would have to finish the job. Of course, by then her boyfriend would’ve made it through the combine’s threshing drum. Not as thorough as the grinder, but quite effective nonetheless.
Off to the left, several people shouted and waved their arms over their heads, motioning for his attention. Yell all you want. Not stopping for anyone. Not now. Not ever.
One of the group broke off and ran toward him. A kid. Pointing back at something. Mason leaned forward over the steering wheel. Not something. Someone.
A figure on the ground. Kind of small and not moving. Had to be a kid. Mason ran a hand across his mouth and squinted toward the scene. This distance from the explosion, they’d be okay. Injured maybe, but not too bad.
He angled the combine to the left, keeping the FBI agent in his line of vision. The harvester’s overhead lights flooded the area around the injured child. A teenager, his zombie makeup smeared, hunched over the youngster. Three others stood in a semi-circle around him.
On the ground beside them ...
Mason swallowed the bile rising in his throat and wished he was already dead.
A camouflage ball cap. Faded orange T. No. Lots of kids wore those, didn’t they? Paula would’ve protected the boys. Andy was safe somewhere. Had to be.
But he knew.
A spasm shook the boy, and the others moved a step back. One of the teenagers turned and threw up. The combine’s noise hid the screams, but his son’s face told him. Andy—his boy—was in terrible pain.
The children should’ve been far enough away, safe from any danger. But the explosion had been bigger than expected. What about Lucas? And Paula? Were they injured? Or worse?
He’d been forced to act too quickly. If the FBI agents had stayed away, this wouldn’t have happened. Why come here when they had to know something like this could happen? If they wanted to arrest him, they could’ve done it when he was alone. Not here when his family might be in danger.
His body shook as if a cold chill gripped him and wouldn’t turn loose. They’d pay for hurting his boy. For making one so young suffer.
He looked away from Andy, unable to bear the agony. In his back pocket, the Buck knife waited. Handed down to him from his dad, its whittling days long past. The blade still sharp and eager.
One more job to do.
He stopped the combine, brushed a hand under each eye, and climbed down.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR
Finally. The combine stopped, and Jeremy shaded his eyes to get a better look at the driver.
Mason Miller.
Jeremy’s fingers closed around his Glock’s grip, and he exhaled deeply. Thank God it hadn’t been thrown clear. His throat burned, whether from dust, blood, or both, he couldn’t tell, and his midsection begged him to fall into a fetal position or risk ripping his insides apart.
Two police cars pulled behind the house. Distant sirens echoed that additional help was closing in. Within minutes, the confusion of the blast was going to give way to the chaos of emergency personnel.
Sporadic yelling surrounded him. Some calling names, others crying for help. Smoldering pockets of cornstalks and barnwood dotted the field. People began to fan out, looking to help.
Miller climbed down from the machine and hurried toward a group of three or four people. Teenagers from the size of them. If he got hostages ... Even without the pain looping through his body, no way Jeremy could hit him from here. Not at this range in these conditions. Had to buy time. Get closer.
Jeremy fired a shot into the air.
Miller turned toward him and slowed. The newly arrived cops squatted and pulled their weapons, sweeping the field for the source of the gunshot.
“Jeremy!”
Maggie. Good. He raised his hand.
“Don’t shoot,” she yelled. “He’s FBI.”
Miller held both hands in the air and jerked his head toward the body on the ground. “That’s my boy. I need to see him.”
Jeremy shuffled closer, the board’s splinters digging into his palm. “Get on your knees. Now.”
Mason shook his head. “Can’t do that. Got to take care of my boy.”
“Maggie?”
“With you,” she answered.
Jeremy cut his eyes toward the police cars. Maggie was moving toward the suspect, flanked by the two local cops. “Miller,” he said, “enough people have been hurt today. Get on the ground so we can get some help in here for your son.”
The group around the fallen figure began to back away toward Maggie, their bodies in her line of sight.
Near the house, a scream pierced the air, and a woman dashed toward Mason. One of the cops grabbed her and held her back. The screaming faded to sobs.
“That you, Paula?” Mason hollered. “Just stay back now. I’m sorry about all this. Real sorry.”
Jeremy edged closer. “Your family’s hurt. We can help them. You just need to back away so we can secure the area. We’ll take care of them. Promise.”
“Need to see how bad the boy’s hurt first. Got to know.”
“Uh-huh. Just stop. No closer. People are on the way. Paramedics. We’ll fly him to Memphis. Make sure he gets whatever care he needs.”
Mason edged toward his son. “I won’t let him suffer. Can’t do that.”
“I understand. But I can’t let you get any closer to him. Stop now. Get on the ground and let us help your son.”
Another spasm rocked the boy’s body for several heartbeats. A low moan, a gasp. Nothing.
Mason hesitated, shoulders slumped, then resumed the slow walk toward his son. “I love my family. Make sure they know that.”
Not good. Miller had already decided how this was going to end. Jeremy kept moving. Another ten yards at least before he’d have any chance of hitting Miller. He fired another shot in the air. “It doesn’t have to be like this. We can all go on. Live another day.”
Mason stopped, held his hands out, and squatted. Slowly, he scooped up some dirt and watched it drift through his fingers. “Don’t think so. Locked in a cell’s no way to live.”
“Let my partner check the boy. Just lie on the ground there and—”
Mason leapt and came at him in a full sprint, his right hand reaching for his back pocket. Five seconds max before he’d close the distance between them.
“Gun! Jeremy, get down!”
Maggie.
The harvester’s lights outlined Miller, casting a long shadow bouncing directly toward Jeremy. He let the crutch fall and swung his left hand up to support his weapon before squeezing off two shots. Center mass.
Miller careened into him, sending both men to the ground. Jeremy gasped in pain as the farmer’s knife sliced into his shoulder. He rolled to his right and screamed as a coughing fit brought new levels of agony to his body. Got to get up. Find Maggie. Warn ... his vision blurred, then went black as the pain became secondary to letting go of life.
A voice yelled through a tunnel.
“Stay down!” Maggie. He forced one eyelid open.
Miller, now on his knees, swung his right arm toward Maggie.
A two-shot burst from her, then the man’s torso slumped backward on top of his legs.
More screaming. Paula Miller.
Sirens. Lots of them.
Hands on him. A face. Maggie, surrounded by disappearing stars.
Her mouth moving. Gibberish.
He coughed again. A thousand tiny steel knives sliced through his organs.
Smile at her.
Beautiful Maggie.
EPILOGUE
Jeremy stared at the IV as it dripped its contents into the tube snaking from his arm. Third bag this morning, the doctor had said. No wonder he had to pee so badly.
“Babe, I hate to ask but ...”
Maggie rolled her eyes. “I’m telling the nurse to put the catheter back in. I’m pretty sure she’d be happy to get a little payback.”
“Hey, I can’t be responsible for how I treat people when I’m in this condition.”
“Uh-huh. Word on the floor is they’re planning a party on your discharge date.”
“Which is when?”
She shook her head and handed him a stack of envelopes. “When you’re healed, and not a minute before. Between the concussion, collapsed lung, stab wound in your shoulder, and the spike of wood they pulled out of your leg, it’ll be a while.”
“Got nowhere to go anyway.” He winked at her. “Food’s not very good, but my nurse is kind of cute.”
She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Seriously, if I was looking for another job—and I’m not—I’d go to nursing school. Seems like I spend more time in hospitals with you than I do anywhere else.”
“Anytime you want to practice playing nurse, I’ll be happy to assist.”
She blushed briefly. “Easy there. Don’t want to get that heart rate up.”
He yawned and stretched his arms. “Whatever you say, nurse. Anything new on Miller’s wife?”
“Nope. She’s sticking to her story that she had no idea what he was doing.”
“You buy that?”
“I’d like to, but I don’t. Maybe it’s because I’m a mother too. Watching her bury her son was tough. But the crime scene techs will be at their farm for at least another month. If there’s evidence of her involvement, maybe they’ll find it. Doubt it though. Not much left. The press is saying it’s a miracle only three people were killed.”
“Not counting Miller’s victims, however many that may be.”
“Probably never know for sure. Of course, you could stick around at the Bureau and help them investigate the scene. The press would have a field day if someone hinted to them you were being forced out.”
He shook his head. “Time to move on. Best for all of us.” He sorted the morning’s mail delivery. Most were from people at the Bureau he didn’t know. “Huh. This one’s from Randy Clarke thanking me. Says he wants to get together when I feel up to it.”
“Randy Clarke?”
Jeremy handed her the card. “Catherine Mae Blackston’s ex-husband. Put it up there next to the one from Rebecca. You know what to do with the rest.”
Maggie dropped the cards in the trash. “What’s in the big envelope?”
“No return address.” He tore it open and pulled out the contents. Three pages, official forms with redacted information. He scanned them quickly and pulled a post-it note from the last page.
The heart rate monitor alarm sounded, and Jeremy ground his teeth together.
Maggie’s forehead creased, and she scooted closer. “What is it?”
“We’ve got a problem.” He handed her the post-it note.
She read it, frowned, and tossed the crumpled paper into the garbage can.
“Get well soon. Colonel Ramsey Cronfeld.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Thank you for reading Coming of Winter. I hope you’ve enjoyed the start of this new series.
I’d greatly appreciate it if you’d take the time to leave a review of the book online when you get the chance. Other than buying their work, the best thing you can do for an author is write a short review.
There’s more to come from Jeremy Winter. If you want to be among the first to know the latest news (and maybe win a free book), you can subscribe on my website, www.tomthreadgill.com. You’ll receive a short email occasionally with things like publishing dates and special offers. I promise not to spam you or give your email address to anyone else.
Thanks again, and watch for more books in the series coming soon.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Contents
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
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
C
hapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Chapter Eighty-Two
Chapter Eighty-Three
Chapter Eighty-Four
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Coming of Winter Page 28
