by Cherry Adair
Moron or not, she wasn't sticking around to argue with the anonymous and clearly deranged hunter. She wouldn't waste time looking for him either. She started running like a chicken with its head cut off back toward camp.
It was heavy going. The snow was deep and wet. Her thigh muscles ached and her lungs were about to burst with the effort it took to draw in each frozen breath.
Another weeeeee of a bullet.
This one slammed into the snow several feet to the front and left of her. A renewed and urgent fear rippled through the irritation burning inside her. She was in the open.
How far had she walked to find the perfect private spot for her bathroom? A hundred freaking miles? While she'd been in the bushes the shooter could have mistaken her for a deer, but now that she'd reached open ground there was no mistaking her human, two-legged form. Someone was after her.
Another shot. This one zipped past her, barely. Way too close for comfort. Breath a white plume, Lily put on more speed, not wasting time looking back.
Another shot. Her hat flew from her head.
"Damn it to hell! Stop shooting!" Lily screamed at the top of her aching lungs as she ran. Surely to God the people back at camp—Derek—could hear the shots? Where was everyone? Fear muted her hearing as blood rushed into her ears. Somebody up there was aiming directly at her. Deliberately.
Impossible. Ridiculous. But fact.
Safety was a hundred yards up ahead behind a thick stand of trees. Yet the snow here was too deep for running.
The dark bulk of a man came barreling out of the trees up ahead, running straight for her. Lily turned around and beat it the other way.
"Lily! Down! Get down."
Derek. Thank God. She needed no further urging. She dropped where she stood. Face-first in the crunchy snow. It hurt like hell, but she kept her face mashed in the icy surface and covered her head with her arms. Like that was going to stop a bullet from entering her brain.
She tilted her frosty face to yell a warning to him: "Watch out." A volley of shots followed in quick succession. A minute, an hour, a year later, Lily heard shouting through the blood pounding in her ears. The other mushers to the rescue. Yeah! The cavalry had arrived.
Coats flapping, hats askew, the mushers came charging up the hill toward them.
"What's happening?"
"—heard shots."
"—Who—"
"What the fuck—"
Derek was on her before Lily could stagger upright.
"Are you hurt?" he demanded urgently, wrapping a large hand around her upper arm and hoisting her to her feet in one smooth move. In his other hand he held a rifle.
"Where are you hurt? Did he get you?" He turned her around to inspect her back, her front. Saw her sleeve with the entry and exit holes and went white and tight-lipped. He started yanking off her coat.
"Wait. I'm fine, I'm fine!" Lily yelled as he ripped off her warm coat and started tugging at her sweater to draw it over her head. It was freezing and he was trying to get her clothes off. "Whoa, big boy."
She slapped at his hand, but he was so intent on seeing if she was hurt he didn't hear her. Eventually she grabbed his gloved hand and held it. "It's just my coat. I'm okay. I'm okay."
His dark scowl and grim mouth said he didn't believe her. "Sure?"
"Yes. I lost my favorite hat, and my coat looks like a moth with an attitude dropped by, but I'm okay."
"Rob. Don. Sandy," Derek called over his shoulder, scanning her features with eyes like laser beams. "Get her back to camp, check her for bullet holes and stick to her like white on rice." The frighteningly remote expression on his face made the hair on the back of Lily's neck stand up. His eyes looked flat and light-absorbing, his mouth grim.
This wasn't the suave, charming, laid-back Derek Wright she knew. This man, this stranger, was a warrior.
The three men came huffing and puffing to join them. "I can get myself back to camp," Lily told them urgently. "Go with Derek."
"Stay with her," he told them, removing a small handgun from beneath his coat. He then turned and ran toward the trees to the left and above them, gun in one hand, rifle in the other.
"Holy shit," Rob Stuart said with awe as he watched Derek disappear over a berm. "Is he a cop?"
"N-no. A rancher." She buttoned her coat with shaky fingers. She'd never, in the six years she'd known him, seen Derek with that expression on his face as he'd hauled her to her feet.
Intense. Murderous. Terrifying.
Then… nothing. Blank. Cold. Merciless.
Lily shuddered, cold right down to the marrow. And it had nothing to do with the snow slowly melting inside her pants.
Don Singleton came and put a beefy arm around her. "Were you hurt? Did you see the guy?"
"No and no," Lily told him uncomfortably. She stepped out of his hold as casually as possible. What was it about the men she knew? Oh, Lily, get over yourself, she thought, suddenly amused with her own ego. Better a little female vanity than thinking about what had almost just happened. That made her knees feel like jelly.
The three men gathered protectively around her, rifles in their hands, but they were a lot more interested in watching Derek racing toward the tree line above them and speculating about the shooter.
"Let's get back to camp, little girl," Don said. "Get some hot coffee into you and you can tell us what happened up there."
"Sure," Lily agreed. "Let's." Everyone around her carried a rifle.
As she should have been, damn it. She knew better. But it wouldn't do any good to berate herself now. Now she could only think of Derek plunging off to do battle with… who? How many rounds did he have in his rifle and gun? How many had he started with? And how many were left? And where had he come from? He'd been ahead of the other mushers by minutes.
Lily felt a little foggy now that it was over. Surely Derek wouldn't be shooting at her? Nah. That was ridiculous. Embarrassment and an icy butt had addled her brain. The shots had come from behind her, Derek appeared in front of her: couldn't be him.
"Just kids out trying to bag a moose or something," she told the others with conviction. She listened halfheartedly to the wild speculations, and pushed aside the ridiculous notion that the shooting had been intentional and aimed at her.
Definitely, positively not accidental. There'd been too many shots and they'd all been close together. Had the shooter been aiming for her? Or had he been aiming for any musher and she'd pulled the short straw?
Some environmentalists or an Iditarod detractor? They could be a bit extreme. But would they stoop to shooting the mushers?
She couldn't imagine anyone wanting her dead. Unless… Lily felt bile rise in the back of her throat. Unless someone knew she'd been in the barn that day. Unless someone knew she'd overheard them talking.
God. Was it possible?
Could this be connected to the bull-sperm sales?
Lily tucked her hands into her pockets and hunched her shoulders to keep her ears warm. "Thanks for coming to my rescue, guys. I'm more than ready for that cup of coffee. If that kid's smart he'll hightail it before he gets busted."
"Stupid fucking bitch. Did you see that? Flopped around like a flounder and made me miss her by a goddamned country mile." The sniper didn't lift his cheek from the rifle as the other man walked up behind him.
How had the fucking sniper known he was behind him?
"Are you out of your fucking mind?" He couldn't believe they'd sent someone else to do his job. "What the fuck are you thinking, dickhead? How will shooting her look like a goddamn accident?"
The sniper shrugged, then squeezed off another shot. "Who gives a damn? Could be a hunter or something."
"Could be a fucking moron or something. Get lost. I have the job under control. Go back and tell the bosses that." He'd heard the first shot from down below and raced up here in the snowmobile, dreading who he might find. Of course it would be this soulless asshole. He'd do anything or anyone for a buck.
How had he know
n they'd send someone like this to check up on him? Because he was smarter than the average ranch hand, that's how. "Did anyone tell you to fucking shoot her?" he demanded when the sniper kept right on shooting as though he weren't there. "And what the fuck are you doing messing with my job anyhow?"
The sniper squeezed off another shot. "You've had plenty of time to do your job. I'm insurance. Stand still, Leaking Lily," he told her. He'd watched her pee through his up-close-and-personal scope. Nice ass. Of course she'd made him miss that prime shot, doing all that wiggling and squirming and getting him hot. And now having numbnuts behind him breathing down his neck didn't help matters.
"Back off, would ya? You're making me miss my shot, and your breath stinks like you just ate rat turds." He continued to aim and fire. It was like trying to shoot a lab rat in a maze. Irritating and time-consuming. And ultimately a waste of good bullets. Not that that was stopping him. There was a chance he could still get her.
"Know what I think? I think I don't like you pissin' in my pond." The man had been paid ten large to off Dr. Munroe. It was a matter of fucking pride. He slid the knife out of the scabbard at his hip, and with a quick, violent movement swiped the blade across the bastard's throat.
The shooter gagged and gurgled; his warm blood gushed out over his hand and the knife. The man's wet glove slipped a little on the hilt of the knife, but he slashed again at the sniper's throat. A little lower this time. Blood spurted out in a showy arc and splattered the snow in red confetti-like droplets. His heart raced. Fuck. This was cool. Really. Amazingly cool. He slashed again. And again.
The moron gurgled, choking on his own blood, but continued struggling in his hold. "Shut up, dickhead. Just shut the fuck up. This"—he slashed again—"is for pissin' in my pond. And this is for giving me a load of shit about it." Adrenaline raced through his body like the speed he'd taken that time. Fuck. He was invincible. This was un-fucking-believable. He loved it.
He'd found a new hobby. Better than money. Better than drugs.
"Woo-hoo, bro," he chuckled, dancing around while still hanging on to the man slumped in his hold. "I am diggin' this. I surely am."
The sniper's knees buckled—'bout time, goddamn it!—and almost pulled him over. "No fight left in you now, is there, you dickhead?"
"As much as I'd enjoy hangin' around and playing some more, I think you prob'ly pissed off the boss man. He's gonna come up here to wup your ass." He laughed out loud at what Wright was gonna find when he showed up. Man. This was startin' to be an interesting adventure. That's for sure.
With an upward thrust, he buried the knife to the hilt in the dickhead's kidney before he knew what was happening. A neat little trick he'd learned in Nam. The shithead crumpled to the ground without a peep.
He stripped off his sodden gloves and wiped his hands on the dead man's coat. Then casually slipped on the nice clean fur-lined gloves the other man had conveniently stuffed into his pockets. "Thanks, man."
He picked up the rifle. Nice. He didn't have one of these. He hefted it in his gloved hands. Yeah. Real nice. The spoils of war. He'd keep it as a memento.
He held it up and looked through the scope. Oh, yeah. The shit had hit the fan down there, all right. What a dimwit! Here came Wright to the rescue. He turned the barrel of the rifle to the left and scoped out Derek Wright's face. Man, he'd love to blow that all-knowing, all-seeing dick away. He looked at Wright through the high-powered scope. Looked like the son of a bitch was looking right back. Man, his eyes were cold.
Fear coiled in his belly. He resented the fuck out of it even though he couldn't quite shake the sensation. Wright couldn't see him with the naked eye.
But he wasn't being paid to off the rancher. Still, maybe later, he'd toss Derek Wright in as a freebie. If he felt like some real sport—
Time to book.
Not a hunter, Derek knew with utmost certainty. He recognized the sound. Only a high-powered, fully scoped rifle made that kind of echo.
A sniper.
An inept sniper.
He frowned. Jesus. He didn't know anyone like that. The people in his line of work, and the tangos they dealt with, were, on the whole, damn accurate. So what he had here was an amateur sniper?
Who'd he pissed off lately in his civilian life?
He bit back a smile. Besides Lily.
He smelled death before he saw it.
Sam Croft. Derek recognized the man immediately, and frowned as he crouched down to feel for a pulse. There wasn't one. Not surprising. This was a bloodbath. His marrow chilled at the sight of such horrific violence. Not that he wasn't used to seeing scenes like this. Not in his line of work. What chilled him was how close this violent death had come to Lily.
His two worlds were colliding.
For one of the few times in his life, Derek tasted fear. Croft had worked for him. Sean had hired him about a year ago. The guy was quiet, and kept pretty much to himself. He was a decent hand, and there'd never been any problem other than a couple of fistfights on a Friday night after payday. Not uncommon.
What the hell was Croft doing in Alaska? Was he the one shooting at Lily? It didn't make sense. Derek rolled him. A blur of red marked where the man had been stabbed in the kidney. Jesus. Talk about overkill. The killer had sure as hell enjoyed his work.
But whoever had killed him sure as hell knew what he was doing.
But why kill Croft? Because he'd taken a shot at Lily? Or because he'd missed?
Derek rose to his feet, taking in the scene. Croft had probably been the sniper. He'd stood right here… Derek scanned the valley below from the sniper's vantage point. He followed Lily's zigzagging footprints down the hill, imagined her panic and terror. He remembered her white face and frightened eyes.
"Son of a bitch." He turned to look back at the body, and at the footprints behind it to try and reenact what had occurred before he'd arrived at the scene. "Someone crept up behind you, didn't they, asshole? Someone you knew?" Derek narrowed his eyes at the footprints.
"Yeah. You knew each other. He didn't scare you. You never turned around, did you? But he stood right there behind you. Talked for a few minutes, perhaps. Then he grabbed you from behind and slit your throat." He looked at the spatter pattern. "Over and over and over again."
"To stop you from shooting Lily?" Derek asked, still sorting out the footsteps imprinted in the bloody snow, trying to figure out who did what. Trying not to think of Lily, but instead to think like the operative he was. Cold. Methodical. Detached. "Or as a warning to me?"
He crouched again and searched the dead man's pockets. Nothing. The sniper's rifle was glaringly absent. Nearby, a pair of red-drenched leather gloves. Nothing else was on the hill but the body and the churned-up boot prints of the two men. No shell casings, no indication of who the other person was or what he'd wanted.
"Let's you and I have a chat, pal," Derek said grimly, turning to track the widely spaced steps leading away from the scene of the crime and deep into the forest. The second guy had walked in, run out. Judging by the spacing and depth of his footprints, the man was probably medium height, about 150 to 160 pounds. He tried to place anyone of that general description hanging around Croft back at the ranch. No one came to mind. The hand had been a loner, as were many of the men that worked for the Flying F.
Dawn turned the snow a milky pink and lightened the chiffon gray of the sky to a pale, soft smoky blue. The air was cold enough to slice a man's lungs, but it smelled of pine and was as fresh and intoxicating as the scent of newly mowed grass on a summer morning. Derek was used to snow. Enjoyed it in fact. He'd spent a brutal couple of weeks last year in the Ural Mountains to the east of Belarus tracking a high-profile terrorist, and had enjoyed the hell out of pitting his strength and intellect against a man who'd been born in that unforgiving landscape.
He'd not only captured the tango, he'd hauled his ass all the way back to Minsk for extradition. No, the cold didn't bother him. Truth be told, he found ranching in Montana's arctic winters to be
a damn sight more challenging than anything he'd faced in the field.
The question here was, why had Croft been shooting at Lily? And was Lily the one he'd been aiming for? If so, he was, thank God, a lousy shot. Still, she could've been seriously hurt. Intentional or not.
Croft wasn't a professional hit man. Not even close. He'd missed too many times. Still, Derek's blood ran cold. Dressed as Lily had been, and from this distance, it was possible she'd been mistaken for a man.
For him?
Possible, but not probable if the guy had been using a scope, which at that range he would've done. He would've seen exactly who his target was. Croft worked for him. He knew who Lily was. He'd've recognized her almost immediately.
Besides, the idea that anyone would want to hurt Lily was illogical. She was a country vet. She didn't have any enemies. Everyone loved her. She was gentle, and God only knew, kind to a fault. She'd rather bite her tongue than hurt anyone. He was, apparently, the exception, Derek thought wryly.
Croft couldn't possibly have been shooting at her. He let the cold ball of fear dissipate from his stomach. No. For some reason Croft had been trying to smoke him out.
Lily'd been the bait.
But who had killed Croft? And more important—why?
Seven
Derek followed a faint trail up the mountainside. He tugged his fur hat more securely over his ears as he tracked the second man's footprints straight up and over the rise. It was a steep climb to the ridge. The guy had slipped here, indicated by the running steps and churned-up snow. Fleeing the scene of the crime. "Yeah. You were in a hurry," Derek said harshly. "Weren't you, you bastard? Did you get off on the stink of blood? Did you watch his eyes as he died?"
He tracked for twenty minutes before reaching the summit of the hill and coming across the treads, narrow, sledlike ruts made by a high-powered Polaris XL snowmobile.
He stopped. No point continuing. Narrow-eyed, he visually followed the tracks of the vehicle until they disappeared over the next rise. Somewhere down there, another vehicle must be hidden by the trees. He'd send a team in to pick it and Croft's body up later.
