by Dani Pettrey
Gunny’s eyes narrowed, his jaw shifting. “Is this about that Gettysburg grave?”
Griffin nodded.
“You heard?” Finley asked.
“Been all over the news. I know Griffin works there. Now he’s in here asking about a hit.” His pale lips thinned again. “Not hard to put two and two together. Even for an old bird like me.”
“Any thoughts?”
“Haven’t seen a Dragunov around here, but Vern’s pretty established in the area. He probably knows which shooters prefer that particular rifle, but that’s assuming your sniper is local.”
“Or regional,” Griffin added.
“Hate to think we have a sniper for hire anywhere around these parts.”
“So there are none that you’ve heard of?”
Color imbued Gunny’s pallid cheeks. “What did I just say?”
Got it. Gunny was done answering. “Thanks for your time.”
He arched his greying brows. “I assume you’ll be back?”
“Unless you want to give me Vern’s home address?”
Gunny looked at him as if about to say “Have you lost your mind, boy?”
“Right. See you tomorrow, then.”
“Wonderful.” He didn’t bother hiding his annoyance.
“Why’s he so irritated?” Finley asked as they made their way to the door.
“Because we’re using his business to seek out a killer.”
She glanced back at the older man. “You think Gunny suspects who the killer might be?”
Griffin exhaled. “I think Gunny is bright enough to know there are a lot of really skilled shooters in the area—probably a handful of snipers, between the SWAT teams in the region and former military that have come back home following their service. Stands to reason our killer could be from around here or a transplant to the area. If he’s not local, he’s highly vested in keeping his and our vic’s identity concealed.”
The sun was beginning to set, and only a few vehicles remained in the dirt parking lot as they stepped outside, the air temperature a good ten degrees cooler than when they’d entered.
Finley turned to question Griffin about what Gunny might suspect, but his eyes widened and he suddenly grew still. Cocking his head slightly to the right, he squinted, studying the wooded slope to their right for the briefest of seconds before hollering, “Get down!”
Instinct kicked in and Finley dropped to the dirt, her elbows absorbing the brunt of the hit. What was happening? Panic seared through her like a knife fileting a fish—rapid and gut-wrenching.
Griffin rolled underneath the truck to her side and pulled her behind the wheel well, his arms holding her fast.
“What’s happening?” Her pulse whooshed in a frantic frenzy.
“Sniper, I think. Twelve o’clock. About eight hundred meters out.”
“A sniper? You don’t . . . ?” Of course it was him. What were the chances another sniper would have them in his sights? “What do we do?”
“Get in the truck, lay low on the floorboard. I’m going after him.” He opened the door for her, helping her inside.
“You’re going to do what?”
“Find out who’s tracking us.” He shut the door.
The truck’s floorboard was cold. The thickly grooved plastic mats pressed hard into her neck, arms, and legs as she lay curled up, wedged between the pedals and driver’s seat. Memories of being stuffed in a car’s trunk choked her, making it difficult to breathe. She fought to draw in a decent breath as cold sweat beaded on her skin. A chill washed over her, and her thoughts shifted to Griffin.
How could he head out after a killer? Did he possess no fear?
Squeezing her eyes shut, she prayed.
Please, Jesus, let him be okay. Let us be okay. Help me to breathe. Help me to calm down. Help keep us safe.
She continued to pour her heart out in a rush, begging her Savior to protect them. Every minute Griffin didn’t return, the panic threatening to engulf her increased.
Please, Lord.
Griffin opened his truck door, and Finley bolted upright, knocking her head on the bottom of the steering wheel.
“It’s me.” He rested a reassuring hand on her arm. “Sorry I startled you.”
She rubbed her head, her limbs trembling. “Is he gone?”
He nodded. “It’s safe now.” He helped her up into his seat. “Let me take a look at your head. That was a pretty good conk you took.”
He brushed back her hair, cupping her face as gently as he could, her skin cold and damp beneath his touch. She was terrified.
“Let me get the truck warming.” He pulled his key from his pocket and, reaching around her, started the engine. Then he moved back to examine her forehead.
“What happened out there?”
“He was gone by the time I reached the place he’d set up.” A welt was already forming at the base of her hairline. “Let me see if I’ve got an ice pack in my first-aid kit.” He moved to grab it, but she clasped hold of his arm.
“How’d you know he was out there, watching us? Did you see him?”
“I caught a hint of light where a reflection shouldn’t have been. Besides that, I sensed him.”
“Sensed him?”
“It’s part of sniper training. You have to learn counter-sniping—learn to spot or sense your enemy.”
“Not to question you . . .”
He laughed. “But . . . ?” Curiosity and pursuing facts was part of her makeup, and what made her so impressively good at her job.
“If he was gone when you got there, how can you be certain he was there in the first place?”
“Indentation in the dried grass.”
“Was he going to shoot us?”
“I don’t believe so.”
She frowned. “Why not? I don’t understand.”
“He would have had a better shot before we reached the truck.” It may not have been the ideal shot, especially if she was the intended target, but it would have been the best opportunity. Once they reached the truck he’d lost his line of sight.
If she’d been the intended target . . .
He inhaled, then slowly released his breath, attempting to quell his rage. If anything happened to her . . .
He would not allow that to happen. Not on his watch. “From now on you’re glued to me,” he said.
Her nose crinkled in that adorable way that made him smile despite the circumstances. “What?”
“I can’t be positive he was simply watching us. He could have been waiting for the opportune moment to strike. Either way, until we catch this guy, you’re stuck with me.” He’d brook no argument on the matter.
Much to his astonishment, she simply nodded in assent, and gratitude filled him at her lack of protest. Being in a sniper’s crosshairs could have that effect.
Thank you, Father, for protecting us today. Please equip me to protect Finley. Shield us in the shelter of your wings. Put a hedge of protection around us, and lead us to Jane Doe’s killer before he reaches us.
He was coming for them. Griffin felt it in his bones. The man was fixed on them.
Glancing at the sky, he was thankful the encroaching darkness would provide them with an added layer of cover.
He truly believed their watcher was simply that—a watcher, at least for now, but he wasn’t taking any chances—not when it came to Finley. He was shifting into full protection mode, deciding just then to take a leave of absence until he was certain she was out of any danger. He had plenty of vacation time to use up.
“How did he know we’d be at the range?” she asked, still shivering.
He cranked up the heat as they pulled out of the lot.
“Did he follow us there? Was he one of the men we spoke to? Did he go out to wait for us?”
That was an awful thought—that they’d been face-to-face with Jane Doe’s killer—but he was more concerned the man had followed them there. That he’d been on them all along.
11
Fin
ley and Griffin entered the lab shortly after six that night, her heart still jerking with flutters every few beats, flipping and tossing in a disconcerting manner. Whether from the close call and the knowledge of being in a sniper’s crosshairs or from the knowledge that Griffin would be glued to her, she couldn’t be certain. Either way, her heart was hammering.
Patricia, the saint who kept the lab running and properly stocked, approached dressed in her overcoat and scarf.
“How are you doing?” Finley greeted her, praying she didn’t ask in return.
“I still can’t believe John is gone.”
“Me either.”
With a sigh, Patricia shook her head. “I hate to rush off, but I’ve got a half hour to pick Matt up from indoor soccer practice, and with 95 traffic this time of day . . . I’m really pushing it. ”
“Drive safe.”
“Thanks. Oh, UPS delivered a package a few hours ago. I told him to leave it on your desk as usual.”
“Thanks.”
Patricia smiled. “You two have a nice night.” Swiping her card through the reader, she gave Finley a quick wink before the automated doors swung open and she stepped out of the lab.
Attempting to ignore Patricia’s prodding, she focused on the large digital clock on the wall—the neon-blue numbers bright against the black rectangular background. “Everyone else should be here soon. Want a cup of coffee or espresso while we wait?”
“Sure. I’d love a double espresso.”
“No idea how you’ll sleep tonight after that, but you got it.” Or how his body could take any more adrenaline. She was still wired—her nerve endings tingling through her fingertips and toes.
Leading the way to her office, she dropped her bag on the navy sofa piled high with navy-and-white coastal-themed pillows—images of sea turtles, crabs, and starfish lining the fluffy back. She didn’t get to spend much time on the sofa, but it was a nice place to sit and read when she had research to do.
She moved to the espresso machine she’d picked up on her last trip to Rome and turned it on. The machine purred to life while she ground the illy beans—the deep scent of roasted coffee filled the air. She tamped the espresso grounds into the container, slid it in place, and hit the On button. The machine set to work, steaming with a high-pitched whistle before the ebony liquid streamed out. She waited for the froth to drop, and then hit the Off button and handed him his cup.
“Thanks. Smells delicious. And you too?” His eyes widened. “I mean . . . Aren’t you having espresso too?” He leaned against the counter and took a sip, his cheeks slightly red-tinged beneath his evening scruff. Never thought she’d see the day when Ranger McCray was embarrassed.
She pulled another silver illy coffee container out of the cabinet. “Decaf.”
He smirked. “Where’s the fun in that?”
“Trust me, you don’t want to see me without sleep.” She began the process all over, again reveling in the soothing scent of the beans.
Griffin lifted the small blue cup to his lips. “I already have.” He took another sip.
She lifted a brow. When had he seen her without sleep? “Oh . . . right.” The night they’d found Jane Doe. They had stayed up all night. “Your coffee helped.”
“I’m glad, but this . . .” He lifted the cup. “Is divinely better.”
“It’s hard to beat illy.” It was the best.
They took a seat on her sofa, and she kicked her feet up onto the ottoman. The hammering of her heart finally slowed to a peaceful, contented beat. She had been utterly grateful for Griffin’s steadfast presence that night and again today. He’d helped calm her, despite the threat of danger. She’d seriously thought their midnight visitor at Gettysburg had just been a local curious about their find, but after their close call with the sniper today, she was rethinking it all. She glanced to her desk, remembering the package Patricia had mentioned, and frowned. “That’s weird.”
“What is?”
“Patricia said UPS left a package on my desk, but there’s nothing there.” She stood and moved to it, searching the desktop and all around it in case the package had dropped, but there was no package to be found.
Griffin helped her search the rest of her office.
“Any chance someone else picked it up?” he asked when they’d finished a full sweep of the room.
She shook her head. “Not without me signing off on it first.” They had a set protocol everyone followed.
“Maybe it got delivered to the wrong office.”
“Ed knows my office. I always make him a cappuccino to go when he drops by.”
“Maybe it wasn’t Ed.”
“Hmm. I suppose someone could be filling in.” It’d happened a time or two. “Patricia never said Ed. Just said the UPS man.”
“I’ll bet that’s it.”
“What’s it?” Declan asked from the doorway, lifting his brows with a cheeky grin. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
Finley restrained a frown. She wasn’t ready to lose her alone time with Griffin yet. She felt like she was finally getting to really know him, to see beyond the gruff exterior he liked to keep in place.
Watching him in action today . . . feeling his protective hand on her back . . . His strong arms wrapped around her—for as short a time as it may have been—had stirred feelings she hadn’t felt since before . . .
Her stomach knotted.
On the other hand, the sniper situation had also stirred feelings she battled daily—fear and vulnerability. Nothing new. Not since last year. Not since Brent Howard.
Declan hopped up on the edge of Finley’s conference table. “Whatcha two up to?”
“Trying to hunt down a missing package,” Griffin said.
“Great.” Declan clapped his hands together. “I’ll help.”
“Help with what?” Parker asked as he strode in.
“We’re apparently searching for a missing package,” Declan said.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said, trying to settle the unease churning inside from the mere thought of Brent Howard. “I’ll check with the rest of the staff tomorrow. I’m sure it’s here somewhere.” Hopefully it didn’t hold anything too time sensitive.
“Chinese is ready in the lounge,” Declan said.
“Great.” Finley placed a hand over her rumbling stomach. “I’m starved.”
And she hoped the food would settle the queasiness. She’d had another night terror last night, no doubt triggered by the finding of Jane Doe’s body. She had to get over this. It was her profession, and she refused to let Brent Howard affect her love of her job. He’d already stolen her peace. She wouldn’t let him have any more.
Please, Lord, let this case be straightforward from here on out. Don’t let it turn into another Howard case.
But she knew in her heart this case was going to be anything but straightforward. God seemed to think her way stronger than she was.
Griffin entered the lounge to find a tall, slender blonde waiting.
“Everyone, I’d like you to meet my photographer, Avery Tate,” Parker said, swooping in behind him. “Avery, this is Chief Ranger Griffin McCray.”
She nodded at him with a smile, and Griffin returned the gesture.
“And this”—Parker clamped Declan on the shoulder as he entered—“is Federal Agent Declan Grey.”
Avery looked between the men, and her eyes narrowed with a twinkle. “The Griffin and Declan?”
Declan smiled. “So you are telling stories out of school again?”
“Like I said, only the good ones.” Parker winked.
Great. Griffin sighed. He had no desire for a walk down memory lane.
“And this . . .” Parker said, “is the renowned Dr. Scott.”
Avery extended a hand. “It’s a pleasure, Dr. Scott.”
“Finley, please.”
Avery nodded.
“Now that we’re all acquainted, how about we eat?” Griffin said, hoping to keep any story sharing to a minimum.
Two brown paper sacks sat on the lounge table. He reached in and pulled one red-and-white container out after another.
“Griff, you wanna say the blessing?” Declan asked once they’d all fixed their plates.
“Sure.” He bowed his head.
“Thank you, Father, for providing for all our needs. For this food we are grateful, and even more so for keeping Finley and me safe today. Thank you for not allowing us to be shot. Amen.”
All eyes shifted to him.
Declan arched his brows. “Something you want to tell us?”
The ranger was good. Clearly there was more to him than met the eye. Only someone with a similar skill set could have caught sight of him. He placed the Dragunov in his case—cleaned and ready for next time. And there would be a next time. But first it was time to find out exactly whom he was dealing with.
12
Do you think he followed you there?” Parker asked, taking a bite of kung pao chicken.
“But how could he know we’d be there?” Finley asked, pinching her lo mein noodles with her chopsticks. “Unless he was one of the men we spoke to.”
“I doubt it’s that easy,” Griffin said, popping a steamed dumpling in his mouth. Stranger things had happened, but finding Jane Doe’s killer at the first shooting range they’d visited seemed far too easy. And he couldn’t ignore the feeling that the man had been stalking them ever since they’d uncovered Jane Doe’s body.
“Another possibility exists,” Parker said. “Someone you talked to could have let him know that you were poking around, asking questions.”
“Which would mean one of the men we spoke with knows the killer,” Finley said.
“Make a list of everyone you spoke with.” Declan pulled a small pad and pen from his shirt pocket and tossed it to Griffin.
“Most only go by their first name or a nickname.”
“Yeah,” Finley said, dabbing the soy sauce from her bottom lip.
Such a full, soft lip that he’d love to . . . Griffin straightened. Get your head in the game. They were dealing with a killer and he was entranced with Finley. He needed to focus.
