Thin Ice

by Irene Hannon

  “Any nearby neighbors?”

  “A few farmhouses, but none close to the perimeter of my land. I back up to a conservation area, so it’s very isolated.”

  Great.

  “Any special geographic features or information about the terrain that might be helpful?” Lance swerved around a slow-moving car that shouldn’t be in the fast lane, glowering at the oblivious driver as he rocketed past.

  “It’s hilly, heavily wooded, with a small pond. The ground is rough and not easy to navigate. I put in a gravel drive from the county road not long after I bought the acreage, and one of my neighbors uses his brush hog to keep the forest from encroaching. It goes in about two hundred yards to a wide turnaround. The rest of the land is unimproved, except for the deer blind.”

  Mark touched his arm and pointed to an exit sign in the distance, then pulled out his own phone.

  “Any open areas?” Lance set a diagonal route across the lanes of traffic. The topographic map would tell them that, but the more detail they could get from someone who’d been there, the better.

  “Just the pond, which is a bit east of the center, and a field on the southern end.”

  “Okay. That’s all I need for now. We’d appreciate it if you’d remain available for the next few hours in case we have questions once we arrive.”

  “No problem. Let me give you my direct cell number.”

  “Hold one sec.” Lance pantomimed for Mark to get out his pen and repeated the number as Ramsey recited it. “Thanks. We may be in touch again.”

  Mark finished his call a moment later. “We’ve got a barn as a staging area. It’s on the other side of the road from Ramsey’s property, not far from the gravel drive he mentioned. Our ETA is about six minutes from the exit.”

  “Get our guy in the office back on the line. Have him guide us in while you pull up the topographic map on my phone.” Lance handed him his cell and zoomed down the exit ramp.

  With Mark’s phone on speaker, Lance followed the directions as they were relayed while his colleague studied the topographic map.

  “Where on the property are you putting the cell signal?” Mark directed the question at his phone during a lull in the driving instructions.

  “Very slightly east of center.”

  Lance looked over at his passenger. “Ramsey said there was a lake in that area. How far in are we talking?”

  Mark lifted the cell closer to his face. “Hard to calculate on a tiny screen.”

  “I can help you with that.” The other agent’s voice came over the other phone. “Using the county road as a starting point, about half a mile.”

  Half a mile in the dark over rough terrain—and sound would carry in the quiet of the country. They’d have to tread carefully to avoid alerting Terzic to their presence—and that kind of slow approach ate up precious time.

  Not ideal.

  “Stand by. We’ll be back in touch as we move in.” Mark ended the call and leaned forward, peering through the windshield. “The barn should be up ahead on the right. I have some extra cold-weather gear in back you can use.”

  “Thanks.” For more than the gear. The tactical part of this operation would be handled by the SWAT team, and as the leader, Mark had every right to restrict the fieldwork to his own people. Lance would have pushed back if he’d tried to exclude him—but that wasn’t a battle he’d have relished.

  “The team’s arriving.” Mark pointed out the dim outlines of three vehicles clustered next to a large structure. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  Lance mashed down the gas pedal, adrenaline surging. Christy was nearby—and she’d be working hard to delay Neven’s plan. Olympic athletes didn’t give up. She’d fight to win.

  Unless she couldn’t.

  Unless Neven had already . . .

  He gritted his teeth and crushed that thought.

  Not going there.

  Christy would be fine.

  She had to be.

  For despite their short acquaintance . . . despite his attempt to maintain a professional distance during the case . . . despite the inappropriateness of taking a personal interest in a subject . . . he was falling in love with the Olympic skater.

  Fast.

  And losing her wasn’t an option.

  Christy took as long as she dared lacing up her skates, shoving her icy fingers into a pair of gloves, and pulling on the fleece-lined hoodie she’d insisted was necessary to keep another asthma attack at bay in the cold weather.

  But finally Neven ran out of patience.

  “That’s enough. Get on the ice.”

  She pushed herself to her feet, praying her shaky legs would hold her up, and surveyed the murky surface. “I can’t skate in the dark. I need to watch for debris, see where the edges are.”

  “Don’t worry about that. Move out to the center.”

  Every muscle taut, she stepped onto the ice and glided into the night, melting into the obscuring gloom.

  Hmm.

  Maybe the darkness was a plus.

  Neven’s helmet would illuminate her while she was on this side of the pond . . . but the head lamp wasn’t likely to shed much light on the far side. She squinted across the frozen surface. Those were cedar trees over there, weren’t they? The dense foliage would hide her if she could skate to that edge, hop off the ice, and get behind them. If she could tug her skates off fast, she might be able to . . .

  All at once, the pond lit up.

  She stopped abruptly in a spray of ice. Spun back toward the chairs.

  Two spotlights, suspended from trees, were aimed toward the frozen surface. They were powered by a generator, based on the faint hum thrumming through the stillness. Neither was super bright, but the circles of light pooled on the pond provided sufficient illumination to let her see where she was skating.

  And to let Neven keep tabs on her location no matter where she was on the ice.

  Meaning if she tried to make a run for it, he’d shoot her before she got five feet.

  Her sudden surge of hope deflated.

  “You’re used to spotlights, aren’t you, Christy? I wanted you to feel at home for this performance.”

  He’d extinguished the light on his miner’s helmet and pulled the ski mask back over his face. In his black jumpsuit, he was nothing more than a shadow at the edge of the pond as he walked to one of the chairs and sat.

  All at once, quiet music filled the air.

  It was one of the pieces she’d often skated to in exhibitions.

  “I did some research, as you can see. This should sound very familiar—and I have plenty more. Now skate. The way you did in that TV special.”

  “That . . . that was fourteen years ago. I don’t have those skills anymore.”

  “I’m sure you can improvise some interesting routines.”

  Stall some more.

  “I need to w-warm up first.”

  “Oh, that’s right. They always have a warm-up at competitions, don’t they? I’ll give you five minutes—because you’ll want to do your best tonight. The longer you can skate . . . and keep me entertained . . . the longer you stay alive.”

  She already knew that.

  But hearing it put into words sent a chill straight to her heart.

  Every muscle quivering, she pushed off on the rough surface—and promptly sprawled on the ice as some piece of debris snagged her skate.

  “Not an impressive opening, Christy. I’m disappointed.”

  She stood again. “Lake skating is d-difficult.” Despite a herculean effort to sound calm and in control, fear and cold conspired against her. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop her teeth from chattering. “The wind roughens the surface, and there are t-twigs and leaves frozen into the ice.”

  “Deal with it . . . unless you want to give up already?” The shadow began to rise.

  She pushed off in panic, her movements jerky.

  His laugh followed her, the sound evil and inhuman.

  But at least
he sat back down.

  “You have four minutes of warm-up left.”

  You can do this, Christy. Focus on the skating . . . and on coming up with a plan to thwart him. The ice is your world, not his. Use it to your advantage.

  Repeating that pep talk over and over in her mind, she began to execute a series of simple 3 turns and mohawks. The easy moves left her mind free to strategize—and pray for inspiration.

  And she needed to do both. At this point, she couldn’t count on the FBI arriving in time, no matter how hard Lance was pushing them. Neven’s exact schedule for the rest of the evening might be a mystery, but she knew one thing with absolute certainty.

  The clock on her life was ticking into the final minutes.

  Lance finished fastening his Kevlar vest while Mark secured his earpiece and wrapped up with the SWAT team assembled in the barn, using the rough property map he’d hand-sketched.

  “To recap: Brett, you and Kurt stick close together. I want sniper and spotter tight in case a window opens. We may only get one chance at this. Go in slightly north of the pond. Nick, circle in from the east. You guys”—Mark indicated two other SWAT team members who’d arrived—“fan out and close in from the west. Lance and I will stick together and go in from the south. We need to cover the half mile fast but quiet. Communicate anything you see that may be helpful. Be aware of where the other agents are at all times so we don’t get into a cross-fire scenario. If you’re unsure, verify by radio. Otherwise, maintain silence. Let’s do this.”

  The men filed out of the barn, black clothing and black balaclavas merging with the night, their NVGs guiding them through the darkness. Once they reached the end of the short gravel road, they melted into the darkness like shadows in shade.

  Without an earpiece, Lance wasn’t privy to any conversation taking place, but as far as he could tell, no one was talking. Mark was mute as he advanced through the underbrush with a silent stealth he must have honed during his HRT days. On his heels, Lance was just as quiet. When your life depended on perfecting covert approaches, you learned the skill fast.

  A third of a mile in, Lance slowed.

  Was that . . . music?

  He touched Mark’s arm, and the other man angled toward him.

  The almost inaudible melody was vaguely familiar. Where had he heard that before . . .

  Clair de Lune.

  It was the piece Mac had teased him about that day in his apartment, after he’d thought the title was a woman’s name.

  “Do you hear that?” He pitched his voice so low Mark had to lean toward him to pick up the words.

  “Yeah. Any idea what’s going on?”

  “Christy used that music for one of her competitive routines, and it’s coming from the vicinity of the pond. A natural ice rink. Our guy could be making her skate. He’s sick enough to pull a stunt like that.”

  Mark spoke into his voice-activated mike, filling in the rest of the team. “Move in slowly until we get a visual.” He paused. “That fits. Let us know when you have something in sight.” Mark turned to him. “Kurt’s picking up a slight glow in the vicinity of the lake.”

  “He must have some lights set up. Pretty risky for a guy who’s been very careful up till now.”

  “Not if he knows the area is secluded and is convinced he isn’t on anyone’s radar. Plus, even the most adept lawbreakers can become lax and cocky once they’ve gotten away with a few crimes. In any case, the light will work to our advantage. Let’s take this last stretch slow and easy.”

  Lance fell in behind him in silence, his heart prodding him to run while his brain said creep.

  Better that Mark was leading this show after all—because he wasn’t certain which would have won.

  Sixty seconds later, he spotted the faint glow through the trees.

  Mark stopped. Touched his earpiece. “Keep looking. Check out the blind. Everyone else, find a concealed position as close as you can get to the pond.” He shifted toward him. “Kurt can see the ice. Christy’s skating. There are two chairs at the edge of the pond—but no sign of Terzic.”

  Christy’s skating.

  As Mark’s words registered, Lance grasped a tree trunk to steady himself.

  She was okay.

  But that could change in a heartbeat if they didn’t find Terzic fast.

  His nerve endings began to buzz. “He’s watching the show from somewhere—and odds are he has a gun trained on her.”

  Breathe, McGregor.

  “I think that’s a safe bet.” Mark sounded cool. Calm. Controlled. The way you were supposed to sound on a high-stakes mission. The way he’d always sounded on missions where lives hung in the balance.

  Until tonight.

  “You want to hang back here while we finish this?”

  The fact that Mark had picked up on his nerves didn’t surprise him. The guy was a pro at reading people. He had to be, with his background. And his question wasn’t unexpected. Had their positions been reversed, Lance would have ordered Mark to stay back. No option. By giving him a choice, Mark was expressing confidence he could get a handle on his emotions and do the job.

  And he could.

  He would.

  “No. I’m in this to the finish.” His reply came out strong, confident, and steady.

  “Okay. Let’s work our way in.”

  Lance followed the SWAT team leader, wincing with every snap of a dead twig. Ending this was going to be dicey even with the element of surprise on their side. Tipping off Terzic to their presence before they were ready could be disastrous.

  The faint glow was easier to discern as they approached, though it was still subdued, and when Mark stopped to motion him forward, he saw why.

  The pond was in a small, bowl-shaped depression, the woods rising like a natural amphitheater around it.

  But it was Christy who drew his focus. She was skating, as Kurt had said, her motions stiffer than he recalled from the long-ago tapes he’d watched.

  Understandable, given the circumstances.

  “Kurt spotted the deer blind, but he’s not seeing any movement.” Mark pointed across the frozen surface as he pulled out a pair of night-vision binoculars and handed them over. “I don’t, either. Take a look.”

  Lance aimed them toward the area, giving his eyes a few seconds to adjust. “Nothing.”

  “If he’s in the blind, he’s staying very still.”

  “He might have heard us.”

  “Let’s hope not. That’s a complication we don’t need.” Mark spoke into the mike. “Brett and Kurt, find a spot that gives you an optimal line of sight to the pond in general. Everyone else, find a concealed position and scan for our target. He’s here somewhere, and until we get a fix on his position, we wait.”

  Mark began to move again, easing down, taking care to make as little noise as possible.

  As Christy continued to skate, Lance followed him down—doing his best to curb his frustration. He had no quarrel with the SWAT team leader’s waiting strategy. In Mark’s position, he would have made the same call.

  But Christy was so close. A hundred feet away when she glided by on this side of the pond—yet there wasn’t a thing he could do to help her except wait. Try to spot Terzic. Stay quiet.

  And pray they pinpointed Terzic’s location before he tired of Christy’s skating and stopped the show.

  Permanently.

  27

  Her legs were getting tired.

  Her fingers were growing numb.

  Her body was beginning to shake from the cold.

  She wasn’t going to be able to keep skating much longer.

  And once she stopped, it was over.

  Pressure built behind Christy’s eyes, and her vision blurred. She stumbled. Caught her balance.

  Don’t cry! That will only give Neven more pleasure, and that’s the last thing you want to do. Right?

  Right.

  She needed to stay strong. Hang on to her control.

  Opening and closing her fingers to
stimulate circulation, she glided around a twig embedded in the ice and forced herself to face reality.

  The FBI either wasn’t tracking her cell after all, or if they were, they weren’t going to get here fast enough.

  Before she succumbed to cold and fatigue, she needed to play her final card. The one she’d dreamed up while going through her skating moves on autopilot, when her skate blade had sliced through a dead leaf caught in the ice and she’d realized she did have a weapon.

  Skate blades could cut.

  Toe picks were sharp.

  Up close they could both do serious damage.

  Pulse accelerating, she glided into a spiral, examining the perimeter as she circled the pond on one leg, the frigid air stinging her face. Still no sign of Neven. Why had he left his ringside seat . . . and why hadn’t he returned? Was he watching her from the shadows? Was he getting into position for a kill shot—or just trying to fluster her with his absence? Would he respond as she hoped after she laid her trap to lure him onto the ice . . . or simply shoot her and be done with it?

  But if he killed her here, he’d have to carry her back through the woods to the car. That would be far too much trouble . . . wouldn’t it?

  Maybe not. Who knew how his brain worked?

  If she didn’t try this, though, she’d be dead soon anyway.

  Better to go down fighting.

  She made one more circuit of the pond. Neven remained MIA. Was there a remote possibility he wasn’t watching? That she had a window of opportunity to skate off the ice and disappear behind those cedar trees?

  No.

  This show was for him, and he wouldn’t want to miss any of it after going to such great lengths to set it up. He was there, in the darkness, enjoying every minute of the command performance. Waiting for her to drop. Relishing the idea of literally bringing her to her knees.

  Well, she wasn’t going to give him that chance.

  Heart pounding, she finished the spiral, furtively worked off one glove, and picked up speed.

  Now!

  She set up for a double axel. Jumped. Rotated in the air.

  And as she prepared to land, she lifted her hand and took the final step to make the ruse seem authentic—praying that if Neven fell for it, the ending of this story would be far different than the one he had planned.