Cold Shot

by Dani Pettrey

  She nodded, understanding filling her eyes. He couldn’t linger there, couldn’t handle the pity that usually followed. He allowed his gaze to follow the curve of her cheek down along her delicate chin and then up to her lips—pink and full and cracked ever so slightly, her breath evaporating in the cold night air. She tilted her head back, and he made the mistake of looking her in the eyes, surprised to find longing, not pity, residing there.

  He swallowed hard and took a deliberate step back. “Good night, Ms. Scott.”

  Disappointment filled her eyes. “I thought we were past that.”

  He scanned the parking lot, the unsettling sensation of being watched raking over him again. “You should get back inside.”

  “Why?” She stiffened as his gaze swept the parking lot. “What’s wrong?”

  “Just humor me.” Placing a hand on her slender waist, he directed her back inside and, ignoring the perplexed expression on her face, shut the door behind her, making sure it was locked before taking a solid walk around the perimeter. Cops still maintained a presence for now, but he’d feel a whole lot better after Jane Doe was ID’d and Finley Scott was no longer involved.

  “Tonight clearly did not go as planned,” he said over the burner cell.

  He swallowed hard. “I’m afraid not.”

  “You know what needs to be done?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Don’t screw it up.”

  9

  The following afternoon Griffin stood at the edge of the crime-scene tape surrounding the grave on Little Round Top. Soon it would be removed and things would go back to routine.

  Routine—something he typically valued. However, going back to routine also meant Finley’s archaeological dig officially wrapped up today. No more daily interactions with the vivacious Dr. Scott. The thought of not seeing her on a regular basis left him . . . empty, and that was unacceptable. A clear warning sign he needed to stay away.

  He rubbed the back of his neck. It was a good thing she was leaving, even if it felt anything but.

  “Hey there.” Her voice echoed behind him.

  He turned to find her cresting the hill from the lower parking lot.

  “Figured this is where you’d be.” She was decked out in her dig coveralls and a pair of polka-dot rubber boots, and was still breathtaking.

  He tried to suppress the pleasure her presence triggered. “Didn’t expect to see you here today.”

  “What can I say?” She shrugged. “Couldn’t stay away.”

  His shoulders broadened with his smile. “Really?”

  She gestured to the grave. “I see you couldn’t either.”

  The grave. Right. Of course that’s what she was talking about, and she was correct in that sense. A woman being found in his park, on his watch—he most definitely wanted to see her killer brought to justice. But that wasn’t where his thoughts had been since Finley appeared.

  She linked her arms across her chest, her auburn hair vibrant as it slipped from her dark green knit hat along her shoulders and partway down her back. “Anything new pop out at you?”

  “Nah. I was more trying to take in the surrounding area now that the circus has died down. I figure it stands to reason if she was buried here, she may have been killed close by. I’m scoping out the possible shooting terrain, though it’s crazy to think someone could have been murdered in the park and none of us knew.”

  “It’s over nine square miles to patrol, and I imagine you only have one officer on duty during off hours. No way to patrol it all at once. Besides, he hid her grave well.”

  “Yeah, he’s not only a skilled shot, but his willingness to get his hands dirty, if he’s the one who buried her, indicates a paid hit and disposal to me.” He glanced at his watch, hating to leave Finley now that she’d just arrived, but he needed to head for the range. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to duck out.”

  “Heading for the shooting range?”

  “Yeah. I told Declan I’d head up after my shift, so I better get going before it closes.” It was an outdoor range, and the sun was setting earlier and earlier.

  She rocked back on her boots, the ground still a wee bit damp from all the rain. “How about I come with?”

  “What?” She wanted to accompany him to a shooting range?

  “Sebastian’s got the dig wrap-up under control. It’s his day and he’s an eager grad student. Don’t want to crush his joy. Besides, I’ve got nothing better to do.”

  “Shooting ranges aren’t exactly glamorous.”

  She glanced at him sideways. “Not sure what that statement implies about me, but I’m guessing that’s your way of saying I won’t fit in?”

  He could only imagine the men’s reaction when she waltzed in.

  She tucked her hands in her pockets. “Look at it this way. It’ll appear more natural if you’re teaching a friend to shoot and we happen to ask some questions, rather then you going in just to get some answers, right?”

  “Y . . . e . . . ah.”

  “Good. Now that that’s settled, let me change out of my dig clothes. I’ve got a duffel in my car. I won’t be but ten minutes.”

  Nine minutes later, Griffin leaned against his truck, a cup of coffee in hand, a second one waiting in the passenger’s side cup holder for Finley. True to her word, she was striding toward him in under ten, her work attire replaced by a pair of dark jeans, black boots cresting her knees, a bright blue silky top, and a snug-fitting black fleece lined with blue.

  Heads would turn when she entered the shooting range, though they’d turn no matter what she was wearing. The lady was gorgeous. Yet another reason spending time together was a very, very bad idea. He just wished he wasn’t so happy about it.

  Finley looked over at Griffin, the afternoon sun silhouetting his chiseled features. Why was he no longer a sniper?

  “So”—she shifted to face him—“tell me about being a sniper.”

  “It’s a job of precision, discipline, and mastery.”

  “How’d you prepare for the profession?”

  He explained his love of target shooting from a young age, his training with the police force, and an auxiliary class he’d been handpicked to participate in at Quantico for extra training in handling any form of domestic terrorist attack or hostage situation.

  “Sounds like you really felt called to do the job and excelled at it.”

  “I . . . did.” The word lodged thick in his throat, the syllable creaking out.

  She was pushing her luck. Pressing a private man to share. But she was intrigued.

  “May I ask what happened?”

  He exhaled. “I was a tactical officer with the Baltimore Police Department’s SWAT unit,” he began. “I specialized in hostage situations.” His body tensed. “There was a call. A hostage situation the summer before last. I arrived on the scene. A man was holding a woman at gunpoint—an attempted rape interrupted. Someone heard her scream and grabbed two patrol officers he’d seen at the corner diner.

  “They quickly boxed the perp in. He was stuck and knew it, so he put a gun to the woman’s head and threatened to shoot if they didn’t let him go. Hostage negotiators and SWAT were called in. We had him cornered in the woman’s building.

  “The negotiator was talking him down, or so we thought, when he burst out the door, the gun to the woman’s head, trying to make a run for it. I had the shot but hesitated.” His jaw tightened. “I knew the guy. Tim Bowers. We went to the same gym. Played racquetball weekly. Shared lunch afterward.”

  “It’s only natural it gave you pause.”

  “It may be a natural civilian reaction, but not a sniper’s. I had target acquisition and a clear shot. When I hesitated, Tim moved and the sniper on the adjacent roof took the shot. He wasn’t as good. He didn’t kill Tim, at least not outright. Tim pulled the trigger, instantly killing Judith Connelly, before collapsing to the ground. An innocent woman is dead because of me.”

  “You weren’t the one holding her hostage, and yo
u certainly weren’t the one who pulled the trigger.”

  Pain etched across his face. “Exactly.”

  Stupid choice of words. “I mean Tim Bowers is responsible for Judith’s death. Not you.”

  “It was my job to protect her. I was trained to pull the trigger once I had the shot. Not to allow emotion to infringe.”

  Griffin pulled into the Red Barn parking lot and cut the engine. He didn’t blame Finley for being curious, and for some reason he felt compelled to share the truth with her. It was time. Better she knew up front.

  Stepping from the truck, he inhaled a deep breath of the crisp air.

  The gun store and shooting range office occupied a revamped big red barn. The range was located on the far side of an old wheat field—several fields, actually.

  It didn’t take more than Finley stepping from his truck for heads to turn, the few men in the parking lot already enraptured.

  He rested his hand on the small of her back, ignoring how much he loved the sensation. It was a presumptuous move on his part, but he felt protective of the lady, and her soft smile up at him said she didn’t mind the gesture. “Let’s head inside.”

  “Griff,” the older man working the counter said as they stepped inside. “I see you’ve brought a friend.” The old man’s grey eyes perked.

  Griffin’s hand remained steadfast on the gentle curve of Finley’s back. “Hey. May I introduce Finley Scott.”

  “Finley,” the man said with a nod. “Unusual name.”

  “Unique lady,” Griffin said. He kept his eyes on Gunny but could feel the smile on Finley’s lips without seeing it.

  “You ever shot before?” Gunny asked Finley.

  “No, sir, but I’ve been wanting to learn.”

  “Sir?” He shook his head with a wheezy chuckle. “Don’t think I’ve ever been a ‘sir.’”

  “Oh, I’m sorry . . .” Her brow creased.

  “You,” he said with a smile, “can call me Gunny.”

  “Gunny?”

  “It’s what everyone calls me.”

  “Gunny was a Marine gunnery sergeant and the name stuck,” Griffin explained.

  “Oh,” she said. “Thank you so much for your service to our country.”

  His eyes sparkled with pride. “Don’t get much thanks these days. Though back during ’Nam when I served it was a lot worse.”

  “I’m sorry about that.”

  “You weren’t even alive then.”

  “The tail end.”

  “But far too young to remember.”

  “I’ve worked—” Thankfully she cut herself off. “I studied the effects of war on casualties.”

  “Ah.” Gunny went back to cleaning his gun. “Reading’s one thing. Living it, another.” He lifted his chin. “Griff can attest to that.”

  Griffin nodded solemnly.

  “Don’t tell me you’re still hiding?”

  “It was a career change, Gun.”

  “Same diff.” The old man shrugged.

  Could he come shoot at the range one time without Gunny bringing that up?

  “The lady and I would like a lane.”

  “You got your equipment?”

  “Yep.”

  “Take lane four, and good luck, missy. I’ll be curious to see if you do as well as I’m anticipating.”

  “Oh, like I said, I’ve never shot a gun before.”

  “Doesn’t mean you don’t possess the innate skill. For some people it’s like breathing—comes naturally. Like, Griff, here. He tell you—”

  Griffin held up his hand. “Let’s not bore poor Finley with old stories.”

  “Not that old.”

  Griffin lifted the target paper. “Thanks, Gunny.”

  Gunny waved with a smile, his gaze full of mirth.

  “He seemed nice,” Finley said as they exited through the rear of the building.

  “Ornery is more like it.”

  “Why didn’t you ask him any questions?”

  “After we shoot.”

  10

  The range was pretty quiet this time of day. Only a handful of men occupied the various lanes, a wooden-roofed structure protecting them from glare and weather.

  Gunny had put them on lane four, which allowed for targets out to three hundred yards, but they’d start at twenty-five for Finley.

  He fastened his target down range and strode back to her, noticing that her auburn hair was striking in the late-afternoon sunlight.

  She nibbled at her bottom lip.

  “You nervous?” he asked, picking up his .22 pistol.

  “A little.” She shifted from foot to foot, the crisp fall air biting. “But also excited.” Her blue eyes shone with enthusiasm. “I’ve been wanting to learn to shoot.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  She pushed her hands into her jean pockets, toeing the concrete slab with her shoe. “Just think it’s a good skill for a woman to have.”

  There clearly was more reason behind her desire to learn to shoot, but he wouldn’t prod. He, of all people, appreciated privacy. “Before we start we need to go over the safety instruction portion of our afternoon.”

  “Of course.”

  “First, you always want to make sure you start with the safety on.” He stood behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist and placed his hands over hers. Fireworks shot through him, ricocheting along his nerve endings.

  She smiled softly back at him . . . surprise in her eyes.

  Why surprise?

  Was her heart racing too?

  He should have never let her come along. Time spent with Finley Scott was dangerous.

  He swallowed, his throat dry, but managed to continue, “Always point it down range.”

  “How’s this?” she asked.

  Perfection. “Great,” he managed to grit out. “You’re lined up perfectly. Now, you want to release the safety and move your finger from the trigger guard onto the trigger.”

  She listened intently, doing as instructed.

  “Next, get a good sight picture.”

  Nodding, her silky hair brushed his cheek, tickling his jaw.

  She was ready, but he was so hesitant to let go, knowing he’d probably never get to hold her in his arms like this again.

  “Once you have the sight picture, you begin to squeeze the trigger. Nice and smooth.”

  “Got it.”

  Ever so reluctantly, he moved his arms away and took a step back, his heart still racing. This was very, very bad.

  Her shot, however, was anything but. The gun reported, and a quick glance through the binoculars confirmed she’d hit the bull’s-eye. “Great job.”

  “Really?” She glanced up, beaming—her eyes glistening, her cheeks rosy, her smile forming an adorable dimple in the hollow of her right cheek.

  Her happiness was contagious and her presence addictive. There was just something about the woman that held him fast.

  “Take a look,” he said, handing her the binoculars.

  She glanced back with pleasure lingering on her lips at the sight of her bull’s-eye. “I credit having a great teacher.”

  He smiled. Of course she’d say that. “Wanna go again?”

  “Absolutely!”

  An hour later, they decided it was best to return to the purpose of their visit—asking questions. Finley had garnered quite the fan base, with the men swinging by to congratulate her on her natural shooting skills.

  Griffin knew a few of the men, so he started yammering, first asking about the Dragunov, feigning interest in possibly purchasing one—not that he’d actually mind adding one to his collection. It was an impressive weapon.

  Nearly all the guys suggested he talk with a man named Vern Michaels. Michaels was a former decorated sniper who’d lost his right leg during the first Gulf War and who shot at the range daily.

  “If anyone knows anything useful, what shooters have that rifle, where to seek further answers, Vern’s your guy,” Tag said.

  “Thanks, man.” Gri
ffin shook Tag’s hand and that of his friend, Bill. Tag and Griff had competed against each other during numerous competitions, taking first and second place three years running in the Junior Olympics.

  “Missed you at Mammoth last year,” Tag said.

  “Yeah.” Griffin rubbed the back of his neck, conscious of Finley’s curious attention. “Needed a break.” How could he compete in shooting competitions after what happened?

  “Well, it’s good to see you, man. Hope to see you on the competition range next year.”

  Griffin nodded, letting his answer appear open-ended, but he’d already made up his mind. No more awards for a skill he’d failed at when a woman’s life had hung in the balance.

  “I heard the lady is quite a shot,” Gunny said with a denture-filled grin as they reentered the store.

  Of course news traveled fast. Hopefully the answer they sought did the same.

  “What time is Vern Michaels usually in?” Daily snipers like Vern were nothing if not routine and in-the-know. Sounded like he was the perfect connection. If anyone knew snipers in the area, it’d be a daily guy like Michaels.

  Gunny’s eyes narrowed. “What’s your interest in Vern?”

  Of course Gunny would be protective of his regulars.

  “I’ve got some questions about a rifle. Heard he’s the guy to ask.”

  Gunny lifted his arms, indicting the vast weapon stock enclosing him in glass cases along the U-shaped counter he stood behind. “Did it ever occur to you I might know a thing or two?”

  “Of course. I was planning on asking you. Figured I’d check with Vern too. The more insight, the better.”

  “Which rifle you interested in?”

  “Dragunov.”

  Gunny’s jaw tightened. “Why that weapon?”

  Griffin glanced around to be certain there weren’t any listening ears, then leaned in and lowered his voice. “We’re investigating a sniper hit that took place last winter.”

  “Or early spring,” Finley added.

  Gunny’s lips thinned. “Is that right? And you figured my clientele were the ones to question?”

  “No. It’s not like I think someone here . . . I just figured it was best to start at a place I know.” Though asking questions like this in your own backyard was frowned upon.