She had one chance and one chance only. She had to take it before he did.
She waited until he took one more step, then raised her weapon and fired.
York’s body flew backward, but she couldn’t tell where she’d hit him. Before she could make her way over to him, the boat dipped hard. Her feet left the floor. A huge wave came crashing over the hull, drenching her and Smith with its cold sea foam.
Her feet started to slip. She couldn’t get traction.
The boat pitched the other way. She grabbed for the rail, but her hands were too slippery. Another wave washed over her. With the force of a powerful locomotive, it swept her off the boat and into the water.
Down she went.
She heard Smith call out her name, but she sounded very far away.
Down, down, into the cold ocean depths she went. She felt herself shiver. The water temperature couldn’t be that low, but it felt like a vat of ice. The word “hyperthermia” flashed through her brain.
This was it, she thought. Well, she’d done her best. At least she’d gone out fighting.
And maybe she’d saved the world from another mad killer. Her purpose in life. Her destiny. Take that, Tannenburg.
She relaxed, let her muscles go. She had no idea where her gun was now. She seemed to have lost her shoes, as well. She thought she might touch bottom soon. Or meet a shark.
Instead, suddenly her head bobbed up over the water. Involuntarily, she gasped for air drinking in large gulps of it.
Somehow she was alive. Really alive. She batted her arms around in the water and found a life preserver. Where had that come from?
Suddenly she became aware of a loud noise above her.
A heavy, rhythmic chopping sound. A steady motor. A big one. Loud. Whirring.
Chop. Chop. Chop.
She raised her chin and looked up into the sky. Chop—per?
Yes.
A huge black helicopter hovered low over the waves just above her. A rope ladder dangled from the chopper’s belly. About halfway up the ladder a woman in a wet police uniform was climbing up. She had blond curls.
Below her, a man was climbing down. He wore a safety harness and was dressed in a bright orange dry suit. When he reached the end of the ladder he extended a strong hand down to her.
As she took it, she gazed up into his face and saw that sophisticated heartbreaking smile. She’d know him anywhere.
“Parker,” she said as he pulled her up and into his arms.
“My love.”
His sturdy arms went around her, and he kissed her so hard it took her breath. It was as if he thought he’d never see her again.
But just now, she’d never felt safer.
And then she remembered the gunfight. “York. We have to go after him. The Free Spirit.”
“It’s gone, Miranda.”
She looked down. All she could see were the foamy blue waves and the fog. The yacht had disappeared.
A wind swung the rope ladder back and forth.
“We need to get up and inside,” Parker said.
He helped her climb up the ladder, and once inside the chopper, someone tossed blankets over her and handed her a paper cup of hot coffee.
Grateful for the warmth, she sipped it while Parker dressed her wound with something from the first aid kit. Though the seawater had cleaned out the cut pretty well.
She looked over at Smith, bundled under another blanket with her wet blond hair framing her face. She was a mess.
She grinned at her. “You saved us.”
“I think you played a big part in that.”
Her smile waning, Smith gazed out the window at the dark sky. “If we can make it back to the airport.”
“We need to go after that boat,” Miranda said.
The pilot glanced back at her and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Ms. Steele. The Outer Banks is experiencing high winds and storm surges. The ferries have been cancelled, schools are closing. People are being advised to stay indoors.”
“You mean the helicopter can’t go any farther?”
“Not much longer. But Officer Smith here says you shot our serial killer. There’s a Coast Guard vessel down there. They’ll do what they can, but they won’t be able to track him much longer. They’ve lost the signal.”
“Signal? Is that how you found us?”
Taking her hand, Parker nodded. “We couldn’t pick up a signal from Smith’s radio, but York neglected to disable his GPS when he left the shore. The Coast Guard technicians Deweese contacted were able to determine his location.”
“But they’ve lost it now,” she repeated.
Parker nodded. “His boat will drift out to sea and be lost. He’s gone, Miranda. You took care of him.”
As she felt the chopper turn and head back to land, she stared down at the dark mist over the waves below. No one could survive out there on the ocean alone. York would run out of fuel sooner or later, and food and water after that. If the gunshot wound didn’t get him first. That was, if he’d survived it.
Those were the facts. She only hoped this time they were true.
Chapter Fifty-Two
The next day the weather cleared, and after a long rest and lots of good food Parker insisted she eat, Miranda joined Ballard and the rest of the team for a press conference in front of the police station.
Ballard made a speech announcing the Outer Banks was free of the vicious serial killer terrorizing the area thanks to the awesome Parker Agency and his team of crackerjack detectives, as he called them.
An elated Wesson stood behind the podium cheering as her friend, Officer Cynthia Smith, received a commendation from her boss for her valor and bravery in going after the culprit.
When it was over, Wesson and Smith did their little routine, shooting off their fingers simultaneously to celebrate.
“Smith and Wesson together again,” they laughed in unison.
But then they pulled Miranda into their circle and the three of them shared a group hug.
Saving each other’s lives created a strange kind of bond.
While they still had their arms around each other, Ballard strolled over brimming with smiles. “Folks have been calling non-stop since yesterday, thanking everyone on the team for finding that killer. Miss Mae called, too. She was afraid she’d never be able to rent that house again, but it seems some people have a morbid curiosity. Her phone hasn’t stopped ringing, either. She has customers booked through next year.”
Miranda grinned, glad the Outer Banks would return to the beautiful vacation spot it had been before all this took place.
“I’m giving everyone on the team some well-deserved time off, as well as a bonus.” Ballard rolled back on his heels, cleared his throat, and turned to Smith. “I guess now’s as good a time as any to make my offer.”
“What offer, sir?”
“You deserve a promotion, Smith. How would you like to be a detective?”
“For the department?”
“It’s the only thing I’m in charge of.”
“Thank you, sir. That’s very generous, but—”
He stared at her, amazed she was even thinking about turning him down. “But what?”
“Well, I was thinking about going back to the Parker Agency. If they’ll have me.” She reached for Miranda’s hand. “I’m so sorry for the way I acted toward you when we were in training, Steele. That was wrong.”
Miranda didn’t know what to say. “It’s in the past.”
Smith turned to Parker with her big blue eyes. “Can I come back, Mr. Parker?”
Parker raised a brow, as surprised at the request as Miranda. “You would have to go through training again.”
Smith nodded eagerly. “I’d be willing to do that, sir. I know I need it.”
With an authoritative nod Parker turned to her. “Miranda, what do you say?”
She opened her mouth in shock. She had to make the decision? She had to determine Smith’s future? She couldn’t do that.
After all, what w
ould it be like having the woman back at the Agency? Smith and Wesson together again? Really together? Smith might be apologizing now, but she and Wesson could go right back to their catty ways. And what would that do to the team?
On the other hand, she thought she just might be able to handle that now. Besides, there was always room for gutsy team member. She had just saved her life.
She turned to Smith and opened her arms wide. “Welcome back.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
The next week would be Thanksgiving, and both Parker and Miranda agreed to give Wesson some time off as a reward for her work on the Yearwood case. She opted to stay in Outer Banks and spend the holiday with her friend and her mother.
Miranda heeded her own best friend’s advice and refrained from sending any pestering texts to Mackenzie. She simply said Happy Birthday again, and she hoped the girl would have a good Thanksgiving.
Mackenzie wrote back, Thx. Same to you.
She was busy with her friends, Miranda supposed. Trying not to overthink it, she spoke to Parker about an idea that had been on her mind since she’d last talked to Fanuzzi. Together they decided it would be great to have Parker’s father and Tatiana over to the penthouse for the Thanksgiving meal to discuss it.
Mr. P was overjoyed at the invitation, but he warned them Tatiana insisted on cooking.
On Thanksgiving Day, surrounded by Parker’s modern art, they sat around one end of the long glossy table in the penthouse dining room and enjoyed a sumptuous feast.
With his pure white hair, matching mustache, and dark suit accented with a red Ascot, Mr. P raised his glass and made a toast to the season. As they drank to it, Miranda eyed the dark-haired beauty at her father-in-law’s side. Clad in a shimmering dark paisley dress that accented her full figure, she beamed at Mr. P as if he made her the happiest woman in the world. And he beamed back at her.
Miranda caught Parker watching the couple with a warm expression. They were both glad the pair was so in love.
And what a cook Tatiana was.
She made a huge turkey, complete with stuffing laden with leeks and apples and interesting spices. There was coarsely grated potato pancakes, cabbage, a zucchini dish and something she called rustic village bread which she’d baked herself.
“In the Ukraine, we call this Obzhynky. The harvest celebration,” she said pouring coffee for everyone as they savored dessert.
Miranda took a bite of the cranberry cheesecake with a walnut crust on her plate.
“Oh, yum,” she said. It was deliciously tart and sweet at the same time.
“Thank you for all this, Tatiana,” Parker said taking her hand.
“It is my pleasure. Now I will take care of the dishes.”
“Please, you’ve done enough. I can have someone do that.”
Smiling her infectious smile, she shook her head. “I want to. Besides, I know you have some business to discuss.”
And with that, she cleared the table and busied herself in the kitchen.
“I can’t stop her,” Mr. P said, his eyes twinkling as he watched his bride go through the door. “She’s become the joy of my life.”
Miranda was happy for them both. And she could see Parker had finally come to accept his father’s marriage.
Mr. P turned to Miranda with a wink. “I’m going to surprise her over the holidays with a trip to the Ukraine.”
Miranda was surprised herself at that news. And she could see Parker was, too.
“The Ukraine. Wow. So you’ll be gone over Christmas?”
He nodded. “Yes. We’ll be flying out a few days before. Tatty’s been longing to see her family for years. They live in a little town north of Kiev. Chernigov, it’s called. And so now I’m learning Ukrainian over the Internet,” he chuckled. “It should be a festive time. I can’t wait to meet my new in-laws. Or to see the look on Tatty’s face when I give her the tickets.”
The vivacious young woman from the Ukraine who had once been his nurse had given Mr. P a new lease on life.
“But now let’s get down to business.” Mr. P grew serious as he morphed into his tycoon persona. He cleared his throat and reached for the briefcase he’d stuffed under the table. “I’ve drawn up some papers based on what you told me over the phone.”
He took them from the case and handed them to Miranda.
She looked them over, gave them to Parker.
He read them, nodded, his face serious. “Are you sure this is what you want?” Parker asked.
“I’m sure,” Miranda said. “But it’s mostly your money. Are you sure?”
“I am. I’m extremely pleased to fund this idea of yours. Dave Becker is one of my finest employees, and Joan has been a good friend to both of us.”
“She has.”
They’d given Becker the week off, too, much to Fry’s chagrin. Though Miranda knew Becker would be spending the time in the kitchen helping Fanuzzi and Coco with the holiday parties his wife was catering.
She smiled at the thought of Becker in an apron.
Running her hands over the papers, she turned to Mr. P. “And they’ll never know?”
He shook his head. “They won’t suspect a thing. Once their mortgage is paid in full, they’ll receive a letter stating their loan has been transferred to one of my companies. They’ll be given an address where to send future payments, and those payments will go into an investment account that I’ll oversee to ensure that it provides a healthy return.”
“Like the one you set up for me with the Parker estate.”
“Exactly,” he grinned. “At some point, we’ll notify them the debt has been paid and release the funds to them. Those details will be up to you.”
Miranda didn’t know how she would handle that, but she’d just go with this part of the plan for now.
She signed the papers and handed them to Parker. He signed as well and gave them back to Mr. P.
Looking pleased at the shared secret, Mr. P put the papers in his briefcase and shut it. “I must say, Russell, you have excellent taste in your life partners. You’re an amazing woman, Miranda.” His eyes twinkled as he smiled at both of them.
“I have to say I agree with you, Father. I don’t know how I’d live without you, my love.” Parker reached for Miranda’s hand and brought it to his lips.
Her stomach fluttering at his touch, she felt happy and complete.
“You’re worth living for,” she told him. And she meant it with all her heart. More than she ever had before.
Chapter Fifty-Four
From the back of his limo, he stared out at the light blanket of snow on the fields. It had come early this year.
He was half an hour outside Boston on his way to a small private airport. A ride that used to fill him with anticipation, but now struck dread in him.
Suppressing his trepidation, he read a news article on his phone. Coverage of Steele and Parker’s latest case. They had stopped some crazed serial killer in the Outer Banks. The news dismayed him. If only that killer had done away with the pair and saved him the trouble of that chore.
He studied the photo of Wade Parker. Good-looking. Late forties, dark hair, graying a bit at the temples. Dressed in a business suit and top coat, he was confident, sure of himself. Something in the man’s look bothered him. A sturdy, unrelenting attitude. A man who considered himself a bastion of virtue, going after evil doers. He’d said as much to the reporters.
His wife wasn’t much better. The idea sickened him. Didn’t they realize people did what they did out of expediency? Virtue or evil had nothing to do with it.
But beyond that, something about Wade Parker irked him beyond measure. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was, but it didn’t matter.
He would deal with them soon enough.
After a few more minutes, they reached the airport. As the driver steered the limo into the hanger, he chaffed at the required protocol. He had no choice but to comply. Hating the humiliation of it, he put on the silk blindfold provided for him and go
t out of the car.
He forced himself not to recoil at the grasp of a strong arm that led him across the concrete floor and up the steps to a small plane. He took his seat, allowed himself to be buckled in, and felt the plane taxi out of the hangar and onto the runway. After a few minutes it took off.
This time the flight took about an hour, he judged. These meetings were rare and always held in a different location.
After they landed, the same strong arm ushered him out of the plane and into another vehicle. There was perhaps another half hour’s drive. When the vehicle stopped he was led into a residence of some sort, he surmised, and into a private room.
Hands pushed him down into a chair. A moment later a door closed behind him.
“You may remove your blindfold,” said the dark familiar voice with the touch of an Irish accent.
He slipped the fabric off his eyes and blinked at the large man who sat before him at an oversized antique desk.
From the gray running through his short thinning hair, the man had to be nearing sixty. By the size of his jowls and his frame, he could tell he enjoyed rich meals. As always, he wore a tailored suit of expensive material. He preferred Armani, himself.
He watched him as he reached for an elegant box on the desk. The man removed a cigar, cut off its tip, and lit it without offering him one.
For several moments he puffed on it, studying him keenly. At last he spoke.
“Santana.”
“Sir.”
“I understand you’ve been having some difficulty with the Doroshenko matter.”
Doroshenko. The Ukrainian the FBI had taken into custody after that disaster in Kennesaw. The man he was supposed to ensure would not talk. The man he had attempted to assassinate and failed. He’d been afraid that was why he’d been summoned.
“The matter has proven more challenging than expected,” he said with a confident air. “However, the desired outcome will be delivered shortly.”
“I hope so.” The man blew a smoke ring into the air and gazed at it as if he had all the time in the world. “Now as to the matter of the arms deal.”
“Yes?”
Roses from My Killer Page 22
