The image filled his head so much he could see her, right before him…
Jack frowned. That wasn’t a vision—it was Caroline, running right into the park in the middle of the fucking snowstorm. His jaws clenched. Shit, she was without a coat and had on a pair of those fancy shoes that might be good in a heated shop but were ridiculous in the snow.
His frown deepened. She was going to catch pneumonia. Right after she slipped and broke her fucking neck.
“Caroline!” he roared. “Get back in the shop before you catch your death of cold!”
She looked up, saw him and froze, panic and fear etched on her face. Then she whirled and disappeared into the shrubbery lining the path. In a second, the only thing on the path was falling snowflakes.
A sudden gust of raw easterly wind parted the snow. Jack could see all the way across the park and the street to Caroline’s shop. He had only a glimpse before the snow curtain closed again, but it was enough.
Standing in the doorway was Vince Deaver.
The shock of seeing a man he’d left in custody ten thousand miles away sent him reeling.
His hands shook as he drew his weapon and checked it for ammo. It was second nature. He always had a full magazine. But he was operating on half his wits right now because the other half was scared shitless.
Vince Deaver, a man he’d watched blow kids’ heads apart, was here, gunning for him, and Caroline was caught right in the middle.
Weapon in hand, crouching, Jack started circling toward Caroline.
She’d taken him completely by surprise; otherwise, she’d never have left the shop. Not alive, anyway.
Deaver raced after Caroline Lake, but a curtain of snow drifted down and enveloped her before he could get out of the shop. She could have bolted in any direction.
Deaver stood in the doorway, senses wide open. He couldn’t let Caroline Lake get away. She was the key to the diamonds, and she was what would get him his revenge.
“Caroline!” a deep voice shouted from across the street. “Get back in the shop before you catch your death of cold!”
Jack Prescott! Deaver would recognize that voice anywhere. He was here! It was impossible to tell how far away he was, the snow muffled sound, but by God, he was here, Caroline Lake was here, and Deaver was so close to the diamonds he could almost smell them.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out the Beretta 92 Drake had acquired for him. The snick of the safety coming off sounded loud in the room. As did the sudden intake of breath behind him.
Fuck, he’d completely forgotten about McCullin.
“Hey!” McCullin said. “You can’t fire that thing. What if you hit Caroline? Aren’t there rules for you guys about using your weapon?”
“Shut up,” he growled. This guy yapping in the background was distracting him. He needed to figure out where Prescott was and where the Lake woman was so he could grab her without getting shot. Prescott was damned good with his weapon.
Well, fuck, so was he.
The snow was drifting in through the open door, melting onto the shop’s hardwood floor. Ordinarily, this was a bad position to be in for a firefight. No one stood in a lit doorway. But the weather was so severe, it didn’t make any difference. Deaver sighted down his weapon, tracking in quarters. First quarter, blink to black, second quarter…
McCullin tapped him on the shoulder, hard. Hard enough to make him miss the shot if he’d been about to take it. “Put that gun away, someone might get hurt.” He had the petulant voice of the rich. Don’t pull a gun, you might hurt someone. Another sharp tap. “Did you hear me?”
There he was! There was a break in the snow, and Deaver could see Prescott. He was dressed in black and contrasted with the snow. It had been just a glimpse, but Deaver had been able to make out his outline. Deaver didn’t see a weapon, but that didn’t mean Prescott wasn’t armed. Still, if he knew Caroline Lake was in the vicinity, it wasn’t likely he’d start shooting until he knew what the situation was.
Deaver had a little window of opportunity here. He didn’t want to kill Prescott—not yet at any rate. He wanted to wing him, disable him, and use the Lake woman as leverage.
Good thing he’d done some zone recon yesterday. Across the street from the bookshop was a little park. It didn’t offer much coverage—just some shrubbery and a little gazebo in the middle. It was perfect. Prescott would be afraid to use his weapon, and the Lake woman would have huddled up in the center.
There he was again! Up against the big oak in the center of the park, trying to get his bearings. Deaver bent his knees and brought his weapon up two-handed, at an angle to present as small a target as possible, ready for the next break in the snow. A heavy dump of it came, then the wind parted one of the sheets. Deaver was breathing regularly, feeling his heartbeat, waiting for the moment from one beat to the next, though at this range, he could hardly miss.
Now! A slight break in the snow. Deaver sighted…
A thump on his back broke his concentration just as he was gently squeezing the trigger. By the time he was able to focus again, the snow had come down like a curtain across a stage. He’d lost sight of Prescott.
Deaver twirled around, staring into McCullin’s arrogant, angry face.
McCullin had a finger up, pointed at him. “Listen, I won’t have you firing g—”
Without changing expression, Deaver grabbed the fuckhead by the shoulder to steady him, brought the muzzle of his Beretta up against McCullin’s chest, and fired right through the heart. That petulant voice stopped instantly, the arrogant expression going blank in the space of a heartbeat.
Deaver had turned back around before the body hit the floor.
He scanned the area outside the open door. The snow was so thick he couldn’t see farther than the lampposts, but he knew Prescott was out there. He wasn’t going anywhere, not with Caroline Lake in the park. But where the fuck had he gone? Deaver waited in vain for another break in the snow, but it didn’t come.
This wasn’t working. He’d have to go straight into the kill zone.
He loped across the street, invisible in the snow, stopping behind a huge elm, listening and waiting. This was it. If he played his cards right, he’d be leaving this godforsaken frozen burg soon with $20 million and a dead enemy.
“Ms. Lake, for God’s sake, come back in here! That’s a murderer out there! Get away from there, for your own safety!”
Caroline heard the words, muffled by the snow, but it took her a second to realize that the FBI Agent was talking about Jack. He meant that Jack, a murderer, was in the park. That Jack could kill her.
Wasn’t that precisely why she was hiding behind the gazebo? She hadn’t even thought it out. She’d seen Jack’s broad, dark outline and without thinking she’d darted into the bushes.
“Ms. Lake!” the agent called. “For your own safety, I must ask you to come back inside.”
Yes, of course. She was out in the open with a mass murderer. A man who, moreover, had boasted that he was always armed. Actually, he hadn’t boasted, he’d just said it matter-of-factly, but still. She had no doubt that he was armed right now.
For your own safety, the agent had said. Get away.
Jack was armed, Jack could hurt her. However painful that thought was, it was the truth. Wasn’t it?
An FBI agent, ready and willing to protect her, was right there, outside her shop. All she had to do was run to him.
So why was she hunkering down behind the gazebo, cheek pressed against the splintery wooden base, hands turning blue from the cold?
The cold was so intense, it was a wonder Special Agent Butler and Jack couldn’t hear her chattering teeth. She was in her shop shoes—pretty black pumps that were pathetic in this weather. They were waterlogged and stiff with the cold. The snow was already halfway up her shins, her feet lost in the cold, wet slush. She could barely feel them. If she was going to make a run for it, now was the time, before her feet froze, and she had to be carried out of the park.