PRAISE FOR JANICE CANTORE
“The final volume of Cantore’s Cold Case Justice trilogy wraps the series with a gripping thriller that brings readers into the mind of a police officer involved in a fatal shooting case. . . . Cantore offers true-to-life stories that are relevant to today’s news.”
LIBRARY JOURNAL on Catching Heat
“Cantore manages to balance quick-paced action scenes with developed, introspective characters to keep the story moving along steadily. The issue of faith arises naturally, growing out of the characters’ struggles and history. Their romantic relationship is handled with a very light touch . . . but the police action and mystery solving shine.”
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY on Catching Heat
“Questions of faith shape the well-woven details, the taut action scenes, and the complex characters in Cantore’s riveting mystery.”
BOOKLIST on Burning Proof
“[In] the second book in Cantore’s Cold Case Justice series . . . the romantic tension between Abby and Luke seems to be growing stronger, which creates anticipation for the next installment.”
ROMANTIC TIMES on Burning Proof
“This is the start of a smart new series for retired police officer–turned–author Cantore. Interesting procedural details, multilayered characters, lots of action, and intertwined mysteries offer plenty of appeal.”
BOOKLIST on Drawing Fire
“Cantore’s well-drawn characters employ Christian values and spirituality to navigate them through tragedy, challenges, and loss. However, layered upon the underlying basis of faith is a riveting police-crime drama infused with ratcheting suspense and surprising plot twists.”
SHELF AWARENESS on Drawing Fire
“Drawing Fire rips into the heart of every reader. One dedicated homicide detective. One poignant cold case. One struggle for truth. . . . Or is the pursuit revenge?”
DIANN MILLS, bestselling author of the FBI: Houston series
“This hard-edged and chilling narrative rings with authenticity. . . . Fans of police suspense fiction will be drawn in by her accurate and dramatic portrayal.”
LIBRARY JOURNAL on Visible Threat
“Janice Cantore provides an accurate behind-the-scenes view of law enforcement and the challenges associated with solving cases. Through well-written dialogue and effective plot twists, the reader is quickly drawn into a story that sensitively yet realistically deals with a difficult topic.”
CHRISTIAN LIBRARY JOURNAL on Visible Threat
“[Cantore’s] characters resonate with an authenticity not routinely found in police dramas. Her knack with words captures Jack’s despair and bitterness and skillfully documents his spiritual journey.”
ROMANTIC TIMES on Critical Pursuit
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Crisis Shot
Copyright © 2017 by Janice Cantore. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of forest copyright © Kevin Russ/Stocksy. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of male head copyright © lithian/Shutterstock. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of businessman copyright © OPOLJA/Shutterstock. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of woman by Faceout Studio. Copyright © Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved.
Cover photograph of badge copyright © Don Farrall/Getty Images. All rights reserved.
Rogue’s Hollow illustration courtesy of Katherine Dyson Lundgren. All rights reserved.
Designed by Faceout Studio, Tim Green
Edited by Erin E. Smith
Published in association with the literary agency of D.C. Jacobson & Associates LLC, an Author Management Company. www.dcjacobson.com
Unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture quotations are taken from The Holy Bible, English Standard Version® (ESV®), copyright © 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
Scripture quotations marked TLB are taken from The Living Bible, copyright © 1971 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.
Crisis Shot is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Cantore, Janice, author.
Title: Crisis shot / Janice Cantore.
Description: Carol Stream, Illinois : Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., [2017] | Series: The line of duty series
Identifiers: LCCN 2017008138 | ISBN 9781496423702 (softcover)
Subjects: LCSH: Women police chiefs—Fiction. | Murder—Investigation—Fiction.
| Man-woman relationships—Fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction. | Christian fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3603.A588 C75 2017 | DDC 813/.6—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017008138
Build: 2017-07-18 11:56:47
TO THE MEN AND WOMEN OF LAW ENFORCEMENT, KEEPING PEOPLE SAFE REGARDLESS.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
So many people helped me with this book. As a newbie to Oregon, I talked to a lot of people: native Oregonians, newcomers to Oregon, and everything in between. I’d like to thank Idelle Collins, Donna Buck, Steve and Maura Lolandi, Matthew and Ila McAuliffe, Peggy Dover, John Brackett, Don Jacobson, Kristen Parr, Victor and Dianne Eccleston, Alana Fehrenbach, and so many more who have made Oregon, for me, a wonderful place to live and work.
FOR ALL GOD’S WORDS ARE RIGHT, AND EVERYTHING HE DOES IS WORTHY OF OUR TRUST.
PSALM 33:4 (TLB)
Contents
Acknowledgments
Part 1 Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Part 2 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
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Preview of Drawing Fire
A Note from the Author
About the Author
Discussion Questions
1
LONG BEACH, CALIFORNIA
FEBRUARY
“999! 999—” Click. The voice
cut off.
Commander Tess O’Rourke was halfway to the station when the emergency call exploded from the radio. The frantic transmission punched like a physical blow. A triple 9—officer needs help—was only used when an officer was in the direst emergency.
Adrenaline blasted all the cobwebs from Tess’s brain. Dispatch identified the unit as 2-Adam-9, JT Barnes, but had no luck getting the officer back on the air.
She was early, hadn’t been able to sleep. Seven months since Paul left and she still wasn’t used to sleeping alone. After a fitful four-hour nap on the recliner in the living room, she’d given up, showered, and decided to head into work early in predawn darkness, at the same time all hell broke loose.
Tess tried to get on the radio to advise that she was practically on top of the call and would assist, but the click and static of too many units vying for airtime kept her from it. Pressing the accelerator, Tess steered toward Barnes’s last known location.
A flashing police light bar illuminating the darkness just off Stearns caught her eye. She turned toward the lights onto a side street, and a jolt of fear bit hard at the sight of a black-and-white stopped in the middle of the street, driver’s door open and no officer beside it. It was an area near the college, dense with apartment buildings and condos, cars lining both sides of the street.
She screeched to a stop and jammed her car into park as the dispatcher wrestled to get order back on the air.
Tess keyed her mike. Voice tight, eyes scanning. “Edward-7 is on scene, will advise” was her terse remark to the dispatcher.
She drew her service weapon and bolted from her unmarked car, cold air causing an involuntary inhale. Tess was dressed in a long-sleeved uniform but was acutely aware that she was minus a vest and a handheld radio. As commander of the East Patrol Division in Long Beach, her duties were administrative. Though in uniform, she wore only a belt holster, not a regular patrol Sam Browne. It had been six years since she worked a patrol beat as a sergeant in full uniform.
But one of her officers, a good one, was in trouble, and Tess was not wired to do nothing.
“JT?” she called out, breath hanging in the frigid air as her gaze swept first the area illuminated by yellow streetlights and then the empty car.
The only sounds she heard were the gentle rumble of the patrol car engine and the mechanical clicking of the light bar as it cycled through its flashes.
A spot of white in front of the car caught her eye and she jogged toward it. Illuminated by headlights were field interview cards scattered in front of the patrol unit as if JT had been interviewing someone and was interrupted, dropping the index cards.
Someone took off running.
She followed the line of cards between two parked cars and up on the sidewalk, where the trail ended, and then heard faint voices echoing from the alley behind an apartment building. Sprinting toward the noise across grass wet with dew, she rounded a darkened corner and saw three figures in a semicircle, a fourth kneeling on the ground next to a prone figure.
“Go on, cap him, dawg! Get the gat and cap him!”
Anger, fear, revulsion all swept through her like a gust of a hot Santa Ana wind. Tess instantly assessed what was happening: the black boots and dark wool uniform pants told her Barnes was on the ground.
“Police! Get away from him!” She rushed headlong toward the group, gun raised.
In a flood of cursing, the three standing figures bolted and ran, footfalls echoing in the alley. The fourth, a hoodie partially obscuring his face, looked her way but didn’t stop what he was doing.
He was trying to wrench the gun from Barnes’s holster.
Was Barnes dead? The question burned through Tess, hot and frightening.
“Move away! Move away now!” Tess advanced and was ignored.
Sirens sounded loud and Tess knew help was close. But the next instant changed everything. The figure gave up on the gun and threw himself across the prone officer, grabbing for something else. He turned toward Tess and pointed.
She fired.
2
“Ow,” Tilly murmured through chapped lips as her knee scraped cold asphalt. Then the shivers started. She tried adjusting what she’d wrapped herself with, but that much movement brought the pounding in her head.
“Ugh.” She kept her eyes closed and stuck her tongue out a few times, mouth feeling stuffed with dirty cotton. Now her head throbbed like it always did when sleep faded away and the day began. And she itched. An internal itching that demanded a chemical fix. She had a little weed left, but that wouldn’t scratch the itch. She needed something stronger to face the day.
Her eyebrows scrunched together tight as an internal conversation began about where she would go, who she could count on to help her. The list of people willing to help grew shorter every day.
The voices made her focus, made her realize it must be later than she thought and she should have already been gone. Shifting position as cautiously as she could, she opened her eyes, squinting as bright vehicle lights hit like pinpricks.
Three men. Two were tall; for the third, she could only see a shadow of a short, thick body.
Could they see her? Fear slapped and then dissipated. She was safe; it was still somewhat dark, and the men talking were illuminated only by the taillights of two vehicles. They weren’t just talking; they were arguing.
“. . . you’re all in whether you want to be or not,” said the short man.
“Hang on a second. This was supposed to be voluntary, free to stop at any time.” There was something in this man’s voice she recognized.
“It’s too profitable now. You can’t quit. You want us to keep your secret, you keep ours and help us when we need it.”
The two tall men had their backs to her; the shorter man stayed in the shadows. They were so focused on each other that she relaxed a tad. She was tucked in a corner behind a Dumpster, the smell of putrid decay and rotting garbage so familiar to Tilly that she was nearly oblivious to it. Decay, dirt, and disgusting things cloaked her, kept her hidden. Invisible was good as far as Tilly was concerned. People often passed her on the street without looking her direction, without seeing her. Most of the time she liked it that way, unless she was looking for handouts. Now, something inside warned her that it was imperative these men didn’t see her. The argument, the setting—they wanted to stay as concealed as she did. She would give them no reason to look behind the Dumpster.
The tall man who’d protested about things being voluntary tried to walk away, and the other tall man grabbed his arm, spun him around, and slammed him against the back of a truck. She jumped at the solid thud of the man against the vehicle, then held her breath, but no one paid her any attention. She focused on the truck for a moment. It was a business-type truck; she could see part of a logo.
The men raised their voices.
Was there going to be a fight?
“All right, all right,” the man whose voice she recognized said tersely as he shoved the other man away. “You win. Just give me what I need and I’ll cooperate.”
“Keep your voices down,” the short man hissed. “There’ll be no more talk of leaving. We need each other.”
She struggled to place the tall man’s voice but his name eluded her. The truck was also familiar; it belonged to him. The other two guys were speaking in harsh whispers now; she couldn’t make out what was being said.
She’d been born and raised here, and even though people often thought she was stupid or crazy, there were few locals she didn’t know. And she understood a lot more than she let on. She’d learned an important life lesson a long time ago: Play crazy and people will leave you alone.
“Just so we’re clear.” The third man stepped from the shadows and handed something to the man she’d recognized.
Tilly focused on the item. The writing on the box was familiar. She blinked hard and squinted in the low light. She recognized the design.
Drugs. The good stuff—pharmaceutical-grade drugs, the kind doctors
had long since stopped giving Tilly prescriptions for. That was way more than a box of samples. Desire flared and she leaned forward as far as she dared, transfixed now by the conversation.
The man accepting the box was certainly not a doctor. She bit back a snort of derision as he put the boxes in his truck and his name popped into her head. He was a hypocrite! He was the one most likely to spit in her direction and call her a filthy drug addict. She guessed the others were no different. Upstanding citizens.
Thankful that her thoughts were generally clearer in the morning than they were at any other time of day, and that she hadn’t burst out a snort that gave her away, Tilly continued to watch. She saw cash changing hands—lots of it—and lots of boxes of drugs.
The short man spoke, but she caught only a few words—middle school, she thought.
Tilly blinked. It was getting harder to focus as the itch grew more insistent. Part of her yearned to get her hands on the product they were obviously preparing to distribute. She was already starting to shake with the need for a dose. But inside her foggy, drug-dulled mind, she believed the men were talking about a new market for drugs. About high schools and middle schools.
“Hook ’em early, we’ll always have a business.”
Something sparked inside Tilly. She looked around as if seeing the dirt she lived in for the first time. She hadn’t always lived this way.
Kids. Memories folded into her foggy brain. She was clean, smelling of lilacs, and with her nieces. They called her Aunt Tilly, Silly Tilly, and together they laughed until their sides hurt. She lifted one grimy hand and studied it. She could almost feel that small little hand in hers. True, she rarely saw them and wasn’t sure about how many she had now, but did she want her nieces and nephews to end up behind Dumpsters?
Tears fell and Tilly rubbed her face with the grimy hand.
The men continued to discuss their business and the amount of money they made off of stupid people. Tilly knew she fit into that category. She’d stepped off a cliff into drug use and could not see a way to ever climb out of the valley she was in. She wasn’t certain if the men were still talking about kids. Tilly recognized that she was hearing bits and pieces of a complicated strategy, but already the fog was building in her mind and she was having difficulty processing everything the men were saying.
Crisis Shot Page 1
