While You Were Dead

by CJ Snyder

  “Peter, please,” she whispered back. “At least, try. For me.” She went to him then, pulling his head down for a kiss, a quick imprint of his lips on hers, his hand on her cheek, his very being on her heart for all eternity.

  “For you,” he agreed. She wanted to sob. “Maybe he’ll want to explain why I’m suddenly the enemy.” She let him lift her to the room’s only window, away from the door, and she tumbled out onto her feet, facing him. “You won’t have long,” he warned.

  “I won’t need long,” she promised. “Don’t rush.”

  “He’ll see you in ten feet. I won’t let him take you.”

  “He won’t have a chance. I love you, Peter.”

  “I love you, Maria.” For a second more, his eyes were fixed on hers, then he turned, catching up his rifle, heading for the door, while she shut him out of her heart and became what he’d taught her to be. A trained assassin. She got a tighter grip on her own rifle, stifling an urge to dust the hillside with preemptive gunfire.

  “Ice! I didn’t set them up. I wouldn’t betray the team. You know that.” Peter’s voice echoed in the small canyon. Outside the miserable hut they’d called home for the past four months, her husband continued his bargain with the devil. “I’m puttin’ it down, Ice.”

  She heard the clatter of his rifle on the rocks, but wouldn’t look. The man about to die was Blade. An agent of the government’s elite Black Fire Team. He just happened to be her husband. Her friend. Her partner. The father of the child that would come in three months’ time.

  “Take me in, buddy. Let’s have a trial.”

  She heard his knife clatter atop the gun, knew he was defenseless.

  The rugged mountainside ringing their valley held only evil and death. Now she could feel Ice as well. Feel his determination and knew the futility of Peter’s attempt at a conversation.

  A single gunshot rang out.

  That fast, her life was over.

  Ice.

  Her unblinking gaze roamed the mountainside. Side to side, higher and higher with each scan. There, 500 feet away, he stood in the shadows with a gilley suit on. She lifted her rifle to sight, found him gone, sprayed the area anyway.

  She was at the spot in less than a minute, verifying no signs of life anywhere, no trace of the man. No sound in the forest, no footsteps to follow. Ice was gone.

  She’d never met him, but she knew his rep–knew his work. Ice, the only name she had for her lover’s killer. But Mykael knew the man who had the answers she’d need. Only one man knew the names of all the team members. Viper would help her, whether he wanted to or not.

  Ice would die. Not today. But he would die.

  Excerpt from Maverick

  by CJ Snyder

  Prologue

  Two Years Ago

  Wallpaper.

  Blend into the scenery. Don’t stand out, don’t be different.

  Maggie Chambers tried hard to concentrate on the instructions pouring out of her brain.

  Keep your feet moving. Not too fast.

  She almost laughed. Too fast? Not a chance. She’d had enough speed, enough terror, enough of guns and gangsters. Enough world-tumbling disaster. No, she didn’t want speed.

  Not too slow either.

  Her feet picked up their pace automatically.

  Just another pedestrian, out for a stroll on a lovely evening.

  Tears stung her eyes. They asked too much. She asked too much. Fists of fear gripped her heart, squeezing, painful. A sob choked her, but she didn’t stop, didn’t let her footsteps falter.

  Wallpaper. Don’t think about it.

  A soft sound, part laugh, part cry, part scream erupted before she silenced it. She checked for oncoming traffic with a quick glance and somehow got her feet moving across the final street. Her eyes were already focused on the mouth of the alley ahead.

  Don’t think. Just act.

  She turned the corner. Kept going. Dark the color of midnight erased up the lovely June dusk. Who knew there were such awful places in lovely Edgeport, Connecticut? Who knew twin walls of bricks five stories high could create such an evil canyon?

  Her feet slowed, then stopped. She had to give her eyes time to adjust, didn’t she? The stench gagged her and she opened her mouth to breathe. Stale alcohol, rotting garbage and something more. Something worse. Maggie suppressed a shudder.

  Paper skittered restlessly across asphalt behind her, caught on a mysterious breeze. Maggie spun, eyes wide, braced for a violent death. Or worse. She heard soft, scurry noises, but nothing moved. At least nothing human. At least nothing human she could see.

  Her pulse still rocketed heavenward but she couldn’t control that. A quick glance at her watch confirmed it. Go time.

  A ski mask came down over her head, leaving only her eyes open to the air. She moved like a shadow down the last ten feet, next to the graffiti-laden wall, soft black boots making not a sound.

  Close enough to hear them now.

  “Don’t tell me after all that you dropped her off at home, Jack.”

  “Damn straight. I don’t play with little girls, no matter how much they want me to.”

  They were waiting. But not for her. And there were two of them—one was bad enough, but two? Could she take on two?

  With her heart galloping in her chest like some wild, trapped mustang, she stopped.

  Right around the corner.

  “How you doing? Gotta be hard.”

  “Still in shock, they tell me. And yeah, it’s hard. It’s damn hard.” His shock didn’t show in the faint twang of his accent. Cold with a murderous edge. He sounded angry. Bitter. Dangerous.

  What did you expect? Maggie shuddered. The gun that had been so cold against her back was now warm from contact with her skin. Unfamiliar, the weapon was heavy and seemed to have a life of its own. The grip slid in her moist palm, refusing to stay still, while the barrel danced and hopped in a bizarre jitterbug.

  Get a hold of yourself. She bit down hard on her lip and brought up her left hand to steady the pistol. Better. One deep breath out, slow. Keep it quiet.

  It didn’t help. She lowered the gun and closed her stinging eyes, letting the wall to her left support her. Panic blossomed from deep inside, suddenly overwhelming her.

  I can’t do this. The refrain blasted through her mind.

  Think of Melissa.

  Melissa didn’t want her to do this.

  There aren’t any other options and you know it.

  One of those two men—the one who’d killed Billy—had the key. If she didn’t get it back, Melissa, the only family she had left, would be the next to die. Maggie opened her eyes.

  I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.

  Can’t was not an option. Silent still, she pushed off the wall. Melissa. Melissa was all that mattered.

  Praying the street before her would remain deserted, Maggie lifted the gun, bracing it with suddenly steady hands, arms outstretched.

  On three.

  She went on two. No one else on the street and a delivery truck blocked any hapless pedestrian’s view. So far so good.

  In the bright glow of a street light, the shorter man saw her first and jumped. Cream colored coffee splattered out of his paper cup, splashed over the sidewalk. Her gaze jackrabbited between the two of them. Short and tall, blond and dark. The short, blond man’s hands were shaking.

  Maggie pointed her gun at tall and dark. He wasn’t shaking—didn’t even lift his hands until she waved them up with the gun. His eyes were dark midnight blue. They were cool, staring down at her—almost amused. When they locked on her own, her heart stuttered. Stopped. Time, the horrible monster who’d gobbled her up in a crazy, wild race to destroy her life, suddenly halted and spit her out on the sidewalk where she now stood.

  Her breath caught in her throat and she couldn’t move, paralyzed by his knowing stare. Using his eyes alone, he examined her, stripped her, knew her, revealed her. Alone. Defenseless. A soundless cry escaped her bone dry throat.

&
nbsp; A slow smile of victory first lit his eyes, then outward, framing his eyes like radiating applause, over his chiseled cheekbones and nose, quirking the corners of his mouth. “You don’t want to be doin’ this, darlin’.”

  The smug certainty in his voice broke the strange spell. Maggie swallowed an agreement, saw Melissa’s eyes pleading with her and raised her forgotten gun in hands that were steady as granite. Fear laced her voice with gravel. “Hands on the wall behind you.”

  Short and blond spun immediately. Tall and dark watched her for long seconds, eyes reflecting a hint of regret, along with the same amusement before he executed a slow swivel toward the brick wall next to the dark storefront. Relieved the stare-down was over, Maggie pushed the gun into tall and dark’s back and nudged his legs apart with her knee. Short and blond was watching; he spread his legs wide without further encouragement.

  Tall and dark had a gun. His weapon was tucked into his jeans at the small of his back, right where she’d carried hers. For an instant she saw nothing but tiny spots. Her own gun dipped, fingers trembling violently. Almost as if he could see her—as if he sensed her sudden dizziness, tall and dark chuckled.

  “The safety’s on, darlin’. It won’t bite you and I can’t possibly get to it before you—can I?”

  A threat? No, a dare. Her chin shot up. Either way, his smooth murmur erased the nausea and chased away her lightheadedness. She almost smiled at his error. Her own safety was still on, too. She eased it off before reaching for his warm pistol. With his gun stashed firmly behind her own back, she nudged his side with steel. “Shut up.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Keeping the gun on the more dangerous man, she emptied the short one’s pockets. His wallet went inside her shirt. It dropped against the belt at her waist. She reached around him. Change flew, bouncing off the sidewalk and rolling into the street. A small pocketknife plummeted to the concrete. Maggie caught the potential weapon with the toe of her boot and sent it flying off behind her. Her eyes never left tall and dark’s relaxed shoulder blades. A key tangled on short and blond’s inside pocket material. She gave a swift yank. The pocket tore, but she had the key ring.

  Practiced eyes flew over the three keys on the ring. Not what she was after.

  Figures.

  Maggie backed to a grate in the street and dropped them, sparing only a glance to make certain they fell through. Her outstretched arm never wavered from tall and dark’s trim backside. She approached him warily, expecting a fight, but he didn’t move. With more force than necessary, she jammed the gun into his back. Her hands would not shake.

  “I’m not going to stop you.” His voice was low, almost a caress. It burned down inside her like lava.

  “I said, shut up!” He had nothing in his back pockets—that was obvious from the way the tight denim clung.

  Search them anyway.

  The thought shot heat into her cheeks. She most certainly was not going to slide her fingers inside the pocket, down around those firmly defined muscles.

  She resolutely swung her gaze to the back of his head and forcibly kept it there. Melissa. The reminder stiffened her shoulders. What the hell was wrong with her?

  Maggie heard what sounded like an amused snort, the sound spurring her to action. With the gun firmly in her right hand, she reached around him, shoved her hand down inside his left front pocket. And froze. Far from upset, he was enjoying this. Her reluctant fingers ran right into the evidence.

  He laughed, a contemptible chuckle that sent a shudder up her back. “Told ya, darlin’. I like your ass, too.”

  Maggie looped his key ring with one finger and yanked. One glance confirmed it. She retreated a measured four paces.

  “Take off your clothes,” she growled. “Shirts first. Easy.” Short and blond’s buttons popped and scattered on the sidewalk. Tall and dark methodically unbuttoned his cuffs before starting on his shirt front. He took his time with those, too. Did he have another weapon? Maggie frowned. “You. Turn around. Slow.”

  Tall and dark obeyed, not smiling now. His eyes were cold, filled with disturbing undercurrents. He locked that riveting blue-eyed gaze back on hers and shot her a lazy grin that didn’t begin to reach his eyes. “Don’t trust me, darlin’?”

  Pasting a picture of Melissa in front of her mind, she met his mocking stare coldly. “Off.” She glanced at short and blond. He was holding his shirt over his overweight belly. “Toss it over here and keep going.” He complied. His hands were still shaking.

  Too much time.

  She lifted the gun, stepped forward. “Let’s go. Shoes, socks, everything, right here. Move.” She gestured at her feet.

  Short and blond peeled layers as fast as he could. Dress shirt, white t-shirt, trousers, black socks and wing-tips piled in an untidy heap at her feet. Tall and dark didn’t have as much to shed. Unlike short and blond, who, despite the warm evening, was shivering now in his boxers, tall and dark kicked off heavy sandals. They landed with unerring accuracy at her feet.

  Gaze still clamped on hers, he pulled tanned, muscular arms from his shirt and chucked the blue denim onto the pile, revealing acres of strong, hard, naked flesh. Maggie’s lips parted. Suddenly, it was hard to breathe. The mask over her face had nothing to do with her throat closing down. He grinned again as he shucked jeans and briefs together, not releasing her eyes as he silently dared her to take a closer look.

  She kept her eyes firmly trained on his and scooped up the clothing. “Turn around.” Short and blond seemed delighted to hug the cold bricks again. Tall and dark hesitated. His proud, arrogant mouth still smiled, but his eyes were even colder, harder. “I’ll find you.”

  The solemn promise rang in her ears all the way back down the alley.

  Excerpt from SILVER STORM

  (Chronicles of the Taken – Book 2)

  By Michele Callahan

  CHAPTER ONE

  Friday, 6:47 A.M.

  Glowing silver embers fell from the sky over Chicago and all of her suburbs. The glittery flakes spread over the city faster than dawn could shoot its rays of new morning light. Night hung on by her fingernails, the sun trapped behind the horizon for a precious few minutes. The early risers, those who initially believed themselves blessed to witness a miracle, gasped in awe and cried at the unearthly beauty glittering down over them like a billion falling stars.

  Then the screaming began as everything and everyone, nine million people, burned to ash in a matter of minutes.

  Four Days Earlier…

  6:47 AM

  Silence hovered over the water and a few moments of peace settled over Tim like a cool blanket on a hot July day. He grinned and finished tying the spinner on his line. The softly lapping water, smell of wet vegetation, and honking geese gliding around the edges of Hendrick Lake were as far from the desert sand and gunfire as he could get. Monday morning meant most people were back at work, leaving the lake and the best fishing spots empty…just the way he liked it.

  Bandit curled up in her bed on the floor of the nine-foot aluminum boat, content to sleep for a few more hours. The tiny Pekingese mix was used to his routine. Fish. Work. Fly. She did it all. When he’d flown home to bury his parents, she’d been a four-month old puppy he could fit inside his combat boot. The puppy had been his mother’s whim and a completely spoiled lapdog. The tiny pooch had lived a life of luxury traveling in his mother’s purse everywhere she went. He’d considered giving the pup away after the funeral, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. That was nine months ago. The little girl wasn’t much bigger now, a whopping ten pounds soaking wet, but she kept him company, she was smart, she liked to fish, and she was the only family he had left.

  “Let’s see what we can catch today, girl.” Tim cast his line out over his favorite fishing spot and let the spinner sink a few inches before slowly reeling it back in. The rhythm and monotony chased away the last of his lingering nightmares. Sand. Bitter cold. Death.

  Bandit growled low in her throat and got to her feet, rum
bling like a tiny electric toy stuck in the “On” position. The hair on her body started to rise, forming a round fluffy brown and white snowball with huge brown eyes. Bandit looked like a cartoon character. Tim would’ve laughed, but the hair on his arms and head crackled with static electricity as well and rose to attention like a thousand tiny soldiers. The water puckered as if it were being hit by raindrops, but there were no clouds. No rain. No thunderstorms on the horizon waiting to zap him and his boat into oblivion with a stray bolt of lightning.

  Tim reeled in his line and stashed the fishing pole in its spot along the side of his seat. Bandit stood at rigid attention on her pillow and continued to growl, a steady little rumble of warning that set his teeth on edge. They were too exposed on the water, too out in the open. He clenched his jaw to keep the stream of expletives from rolling off his tongue. Whatever this was, it wasn’t normal. His silence came as automatic as breathing. He didn’t start the small trolling motor. He took out an oar and paddled smoothly for the tree line behind his house. Two minutes, perhaps three, and he’d be under cover.