Driftwood Bay (Hope Harbor #5) - Irene Hannon Page 0,109

week. Do I have to bring in someone else?”

“No. The job will get done—but from now on, I’m doing it my way.”

I frowned. “What does that mean?”

“There are more creative methods of offing people than tossing them from a balcony or staging a robbery.”

“It has to look like the death was an unfortunate consequence, not the goal.”

“Understood.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Do you want details—or results?”

This guy had attitude with a capital A.

But as long as he earned his money, who cared?

“Fine. Let me know when it’s over and I’ll settle up.”

“Count on it.”

The line went dead.

I stabbed the end button and shoved the phone back into my pocket, quashing the tiny twinge of guilt nipping at my conscience.

Misplaced guilt.

After all, what choice did I have? Given what he knew, letting him live was too much of a risk.

Especially with the dream in sight.

The icy wind picked up, numbing my fingers.

I ought to get back inside. I had places to go, people to meet, things to do.

But I also needed another cigarette.

Bad.

I dug deep into the pocket of my coat and pulled out the pack of unfiltered Camels, along with the Bic. Shook out a coffin nail. Flipped the lighter against the tip. Inhaled slow and deep.

Yes, it was a nasty habit—but there was nothing like a nicotine rush.

And some days, a few stolen moments like these were the only downtime I got.

My regular cell began to vibrate, and I groped for it as I took another drag on the Camel.

Sighed as I glanced at the screen.

This break was going to be short-lived.

I put the cell to my ear. “Yes?”

“Did I catch you in the middle of something?”

“No.” I stubbed out the cigarette on the piece of aluminum foil and folded the whole mess into itself. One of these days soon I’d have to give up this vice. “What’s up?”

“I wanted to confirm the details for this afternoon’s meeting.”

“Okay.”

I half-listened as I headed inside. I already knew the details . . . and the personalities . . . and the stakes. But this underling was just doing her job. Dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s. I couldn’t hold her diligence against her—even if I had bigger issues on my mind.

Like an unfinished job.

But once this loose end was tied up, my goal would be within touching distance.

All I had to do was stay the course, follow the plan—and keep my eye on the prize.

There was blood on the ice.

Rick Jordan jolted to a stop, gaze riveted on the crimson spots blemishing the frosty ground, fingers tightening on the disposable cup of coffee he’d just nuked.

Could his eyes be playing tricks on him in the waning afternoon light of the December afternoon?

He leaned closer.

No.

His 20/20 vision hadn’t failed him.

It was blood.

After all the gore he’d seen, it wasn’t difficult to make a positive ID.

But given the abundant wildlife on the wooded acreage he called home, could it be from an animal?

As he peered at the ruby-colored stains, the hair on the back of his neck snapped to attention—and since metabolic cues had saved his hide on more Night Stalker missions than he cared to remember, ignoring them would be foolish.

The blood was human.

Giving the landscape a thorough, methodical sweep, he set down the cup of java he’d picked up at the café during his supply run to town, balancing it on the uneven ground.

No movement other than the huge flakes that had begun to sift down from the leaden sky.

Apparently the blizzard warning issued this morning had been spot on. Missouri would have a white Christmas.

Nothing wrong with a Currier & Ives–style holiday—except the flakes were rapidly covering the trail of splotches on the three-day-old ice crystals from Tuesday’s sleet storm.

In minutes, they’d be impossible to track.

Continuing to scan his surroundings, he removed the compact Beretta from the concealed carry holster clipped to his belt. No reason to carry when the camp was full of kids and counselors, but wandering around unarmed in winter on 650 isolated, deserted acres?

Not happening.

He might never have needed a gun in the four years he’d called this rural Missouri acreage home, but it was better to risk overkill than being killed.

And while the camp had always been a peaceful refuge for him and the hundreds of kids who visited each season, his goosed adrenaline suggested that was about to change.

Pistol in hand, he followed the uneven trail of blood, only the muffled quack of a duck from the lake a hundred yards away