CHAPTER TWO
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“You did this on purpose.”
Coen Flynn kicked the toe of his military-issued boot against the porch step to dislodge the packed snow stuck in the tread. He held the satellite phone to his ear as he glanced down, confirming he’d loosened most of the white stuff before walking onto the dry wood. It wouldn’t stay that way for long, according to the meteorologist.
Another storm was expected to arrive over the central Rockies unleashing up to fourteen inches of additional snow through tomorrow evening. It was scheduled to hit sometime in the middle of the night. All the local markets had already been pillaged, house generators had been topped off, and snow blowers were primed and filled to the brim with fuel in preparation of what was to come. This was a typical routine for the residents of this small town, but one Coen could definitely live without.
He missed the sunshine.
He missed the warmth.
And he sure as hell didn’t appreciate that almost his entire team was close to two thousand miles away in Florida.
“You did three stints in Norway after completing cold weather training. The temperatures there were much farther in the negative. You’re lucky you came back with any balls from those deployments,” Brody Novak said wryly, reminding Coen of bitter cold days he’d rather forget. “Calvert thought you could handle a milk run in Colorado, no problem. I agreed at first because of the resorts having all those ski bunnies, but you can report back home as it stands now.”
“Ski bunnies, huh?” Coen didn’t enter the small rental house he’d been using for past week to monitor the comings and goings of Brettany Lambert. Instead, he held the phone against his shoulder as he pulled out a cigarette pack that was basically just for show and knocked one end of the cardboard container against the palm of his hand as he surveyed the two-story home across the street. His mission was simple—keep Brettany Lambert from being their serial killer’s next target. “I haven’t had to adjust my sac in three weeks. I’d say that’s cause for concern. They may have crawled back up inside of me.”
“Then I’ll schedule a flight for you to come back to Florida,” Brody advised in his attempt to wrangle Coen back to headquarters. “We’ve arranged for other agencies to oversee the monitoring of the potential target list. Your replacement is flying in as we speak. Ms. Lambert will be monitored twenty-four seven by another babysitter, but we’re at a point in the investigation where we can’t afford to expend personnel on unproductive leads.”
“An unrelated murder occurred in the middle of a freak snowstorm and it’s my charge who turns out to be the one who finds the body. I personally don’t think it was so arbitrary, and I think Moss is connected somehow. I’m staying put until my theory is played out.”
Shepherd Moss had been the bane of their existence for months now, and it appeared he was still pulling their strings by manipulating a crowd of admirers.
Coen thinned his lips at his mention of the man’s name.
Hell, he wasn’t a man. He was a fucking monster. He was a soulless entity filled with so much evil that the only merciful thing to do was to put a bullet between its eyes the moment he was seen, sending the creature back to where it came from. The only reason his agency had taken on this type of case was due to the personal connection between Moss and the owner and operator.
Townes Calvert had created Safeguard Security and Investigations, better known as SSI, to take random domestic cases on a much more simpler scale than the fight for freedom the entire team had endured during their stints in the military.
Over the last sixteen years, all the services had been on nearly constant rotation through one theater of war or another. The Marines had been especially hard hit with less resources to draw on. They all knew Marines who had done ten deployments or more, being gone nine months out of every year for a decade.
It got to be that they were more at home in the sandboxes of Iraq or Afghanistan than back in the States. All six team members of SSI had served in the Marines with distinction, lending their similar methods of completing any given task to the success of several assignments. A case this disturbing should really be left up to the Federal Marshals Service (FMS) and their Fugitive Task Force (FTF).
As it stood, the vast majority of their resources nationally were currently spent on finding and processing illegals who were skipping felony bonds in sanctuary cities and eluding ICE officials. They weren’t too concerned with pursuing a psychopath hellbent on seeking revenge, especially when this type of investigation could be outsourced.
It was easier for them to hire an outside agency to specifically augment the Miami FMS office and their FTF in tracking down this high priority threat. Townes had connections leading to lucrative federal contracts; however, Coen had a feeling there wouldn’t be a lot of profit made on this one.
It was personal.
The fact that Shepherd Moss had Townes Calvert in his crosshairs was cause for concern and was the main reason for SSI’s involvement.
“Shepherd Moss has all but taken a billboard out on Interstate 4 claiming that he’s coming after Calvert,” Brody exclaimed, his voice rather heavy with emotion. “We’re going to need all our gunslingers close to the ranch. That means you, wild man.”
There was no way in hell Coen was returning to Florida without seeing to it that Brettany Lambert was safe from whoever murdered her friend seven days ago. Had Moss been up there on that mountain range or was it one of his surrogates? Had Coen finally been within shooting distance and not known it? He wasn’t sure, but he sure as hell was going to find out before he left.
Shepherd Moss was a notorious serial killer who had ended up on the FBI’s Most Wanted list after escaping from federal custody. Calvert had been the one key player responsible for the man’s capture and subsequent incarceration. Unfortunately, it had come a little too late for his last victim—Shailyn Doyle—who had experienced incredible torture and suffered endlessly before finally being found barely alive. She’d been scarred for life, physically and emotionally.
Ms. Doyle was currently in WITSEC, the United States Federal Witness Protection Program. She was the one woman who federal law enforcement had assumed was Moss’ primary target after his escape. After all the incidents scattered over the last month, it was more than evident that Moss wanted retribution on Calvert most of all.
The battle had been brought to SSI’s front doorstep.
“How is Camryn?” Coen asked, flicking the small flint striker on the Zippo lighter until a short flame came to life inside the windproof cage. He touched the end of his cigarette to the flickering blue and yellow fire. He did his best not to breathe in too much smoke, though that was all but impossible with today’s cigarettes. If you didn’t draw on the damned things, it would go out due to the crap the laboratories put into them. His lungs were probably already coated with black shit, but this was the most logical excuse he could come up with as a plausible reason to be outside wandering around in these brutal temperatures. “I spoke with Sawyer earlier in the day. He mentioned Camryn was still a little sore, but that it wasn’t anything a little ibuprofen couldn’t handle.”
Coen had missed quite a lot while he was in Colorado this past month, such as the fact that Moss had targeted Brody’s sister through a sycophant pawn. Everyone had been a little too busy monitoring the comings and goings of potential victims, so Camryn Novak’s abduction had come as quite a shock. She’d managed to just barely survive, but that particular attack so close to the SSI team would be Moss’ ultimate downfall.
The killer had made this personal, beyond the fact that he blamed Calvert for his incarceration.
There was only one way this would end now.
Someone was going to die.
“Camryn is a fighter,” Brody responded affectionately, his admiration for his sister more than obvious. “She’s here at the compound now, as well as everyone else. We also have surveillance on all extended family members—including your parents and brother—with twice daily updates. We honestly have no idea where or who Moss is going after next.”
Coen winced slightly at the mention of his younger brother. Danny was a mess…or had been the last he’d seen. He was trying his best to sort out his life after falling in with a bad crowd years prior. Something like that certainly didn’t happen overnight. No one was to blame but Danny. It took years to recover from that kind of mistake. Changing one’s stripes was almost impossible.
Coen wasn’t about to be mentally drawn down a path of family drama when lives were at stake right here where he’d been assigned, such as the pretty little schoolteacher across the street. He needed his full faculties for something like this, and the predicted storm would be the perfect time for Moss to strike his next victim. Coen was here to make sure it wasn’t Ms. Lambert, regardless of who it was pulling the proverbial trigger.
“I get why Calvert would want to round up the crew, but we’ve already established that Moss’ intellect is off the charts. He isn’t going to attack the estate directly.” Coen shoved the lighter back into his pocket. He had no doubt that pertinent facts regarding the process Calvert had taken to see Moss behind bars had been left out, but that wasn’t important anymore. “We’re not dealing with some random killer who makes rookie mistakes. Hell, the fact that Calvert was able to bring the man into custody in the first place was an anomaly.”
“I agree with you, but there’s nothing in the paperwork that suggests Moss’ arrest wasn’t on the up and up,” Brody pointed out somewhat defensively. “No one had to manufacture any evidence to aid the prosecution.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass how Calvert brought Moss down originally, but this psychopath has already proven he’ll use other killers to get his point across. Look at the lengths he went to in order to personally watch Camryn suffer. Which is why you need to do another background check on all the names I provided you who were up at that campground and see if anyone else besides Brettany Lambert had a past connection with Shailyn Doyle or Moss. I can’t put my finger on it yet, but Ms. Lambert’s life is in danger. I’m not going to pass her off to some flunkie. Moss has us second guessing every move we make. I’m staying put until I know for a fact that Heidi Connolly’s murder wasn’t connected to Moss or one of his acolytes.”
“But you think it is at this point? I’m telling you that Heidi Connolly grew up in Colorado and her path never once crossed over to Shailyn Doyle’s childhood or anything else Moss has touched.” Brody was going to wait a very long time if he thought Coen was going to comment and let go of this train of thought. “You’re such a pain in my ass.”
“You already made my flight reservations, didn’t you, douchebag?” Coen asked, grinning at the thought that Brody would have to spend the next five or ten minutes canceling travel plans. “Hope you added on that travel insurance, buddy.”
“If Calvert doesn’t hire this firm some support staff soon, I’m either going to give myself a hell of a Christmas bonus or he’s going to find our storefront in town full of personnel I’ve hired using his name by the end of year.”
Coen could relate to Brody’s frustration with the lack of proper support. Hell, he was on his own up here in the freaking arctic mountains. He’d had spent a good eight hours last weekend trying to convince the local police chief that the murder of Heidi Connolly was connected to Shepherd Moss. Of course, it had taken a call from Calvert to the State AG to convince the sheriff to allow Coen in on the investigation.
Eventually, Sheriff Whitney realized that he and his men might very well be out of their league in dealing with someone as ruthless as Moss or any experienced practitioner following his specific instructions. In the end, Coen had been permitted to speak to Ms. Lambert in a vain attempt to gain more information about what she might have seen that night, though he’d done it under the ruse of being a state police investigator.
“Why is it that you’re always the one who makes my job difficult?”
“You’re confusing me with Royce,” Coen corrected, never missing the chance to throw another teammate under the bus. He would have come up with something to say about Keane and Sawyer as well, but he needed to end this conversation and get back to freezing his ass off. He desperately needed to put one hand in his pocket for warmth. Why did people choose to live in such an unbearable place? “You’re losing your step in your old age.”
Coen leaned a shoulder against one of the two white pillars that was in desperate need of paint. He took another drag on the cigarette, squinting when he inhaled a little too much nicotine. His younger brother inhaled these damned things like they were cinnamon candy sticks, but Coen had never seen the appeal. The thought had crossed his mind that maybe the frozen air might counteract the smoke, but that was almost certainly wishful thinking.
“You might want to double check your birth certificate, friend,” Brody replied with a laugh. He was their technological wizard in all things electronic, so it wouldn’t surprise Coen if the man had everyone’s shoe size listed in a relational database somewhere. “You have a few digits on me, if I recall correctly.”
“You’re confusing age with IQ again.” Coen caught sight of Ms. Lambert’s door opening. “Listen, I need to haul ass. Tell Calvert I’m staying put for a few more days.”
“Tell him your—”
Click.
Coen disconnected the line before Brody could finish his sentence, mostly due to the fact that the pretty little brunette he’d been watching for the past month had walked out of her front door and was carefully treading down her sidewalk…heading straight for him.
What did she think she was doing?
Coen didn’t like that he was drawn to her the way he was. He’d been observing her movements for the last four weeks nonstop, ensuring that she was safe from anything that Moss might have preplanned. His job had become rather difficult when she’d attended the wedding up on Mount Evan. He’d almost suffered hypothermia when he’d set up camp not fifty yards out from her cabin.
Technically, that’s how he’d been keeping her in his sights. The property line behind her house fed into a strip of woods that had been perfect for nighttime concealment. He’d set up a makeshift sniper’s nest, which allowed him the benefit of watching her unnoticed.
After the murder of Heidi Connolly, Coen decided it was best to have Ms. Lambert aware of his presence to establish a bit of trust should he ever need her to blindly follow his lead in an emergency. Using the local police had been beneficial, giving him a closer proximity to his target.
During his observations, he found that Brettany Lambert was an overtly compassionate type, optimistic about the outcome of virtually everything, loyal to a fault, and downright sexy as hell—though he was certain she would probably disagree with his last description. She was an attractive small-town girl who looked after her neighbors, brought soup to those who were sick, made cupcakes to brighten up someone’s day, and apparently didn’t have a materialistic bone in her body.
He shook his head in disbelief at the existence of a unicorn on the infamous dating scale. She was an unattached female ranking at least an eight or nine without being clinically insane.
Was that even possible in this day and age?
Brettany also looked much younger than her years, with natural brown curls that hung below her shoulders. Most females would have hated her for just that reason alone, but her smile could light up a room like nothing he’d ever seen. She made every effort to try and tame her charges, but she usually gave up by the time she came home from a full day of teaching seven year olds in second grade.
And her eyes?
Well, they were emerald green and held a touch of innocence that had been stolen by the sight she’d seen up at the campground. He had found himself wanting to restore her faith in humanity, until he remembered he had none of his own. She was a classic damsel in distress, and he found that he wanted to be her knight.
The human race was fallible. He knew this from personal experience in some of the world’s worst hellholes. People were only out for themselves, and he’d seen the ravages of war to prove it. He figured he was somewhat fascinated by her because she was unlike any other woman he’d known.
His very own unicorn.
His conclusion?
Brettany Lambert was the epitome of marriage material, and he better stay far away from her.
“Hi there, neighbor,” Brettany said with a smile that wasn’t quite as bright as he remembered when meeting her before.
Something must have happened, because she had never invaded his personal space. He’d made sure to mention last weekend that he was new to the area so that she didn’t find it odd to suddenly see him staring at her house from across the street. Whatever she had to say must be significant. He immediately snuffed out his cigarette on the stone footing at the base of the porch column. He then stripped the butt and tossed it into the buttcan he’d placed there, only to try and stem his guilt from her raised eyebrow. It didn’t take much to know he wouldn’t have lasted long in her classroom.
“Do you have a minute to talk?” Brettany asked, shifting the hood of her jacket so she could still see him when a gust of wind caught the side. “I wanted to run something by you.”
Coen had seen to it that the only time they’d ever exchanged words had been in the course of the investigation. He didn’t like the fact that he’d had to mislead her, but he’d made sure he never lied to her directly. Having a deputy introduce him as a state police investigator rather than stating that untruth himself was essential to maintaining his sense of integrity. There were times their conversations had become a balancing act, but those few interviews had gone fairly well. She’d never purposefully sought him out like this, and he honestly wasn’t too keen to find out why as he glanced up and down the street with unease.
“Has something happened?” Coen asked as he was finally able to slip both hands in the pockets of his jacket for warmth. He probably should invite her inside, but that would only be asking for trouble. “Are you okay?”
“Oh, I’m fine. Though I can’t answer your first question, because I’m not really sure.” Brettany hedged her response before hesitantly gesturing toward his front door with her mitten. “Would it be possible to talk inside where I assume it’s warmer?”
Coen had purposefully grown out his five o’clock shadow to battle the cold in this godforsaken state, and he was never more grateful for that decision than now. She most likely couldn’t see his jawline tightening in irritation. It wasn’t like she’d left him any real choice. Well, technically, he always had a choice, but he didn’t want to come off as an asshole.
“Of course. Please, come in.” Coen stepped back and cleared the way for Brettany to walk up the two steps that still only put the top of her head to his chest. According to her dossier, she was five foot, four inches, but he could swear someone had added an inch by mistake. “Is this about Heidi’s murder?”
Brettany pulled back the hood of her parka, allowing her loose curls the freedom to move in the wind. Speaking of which, the gusts were becoming stronger with each passing moment. It wouldn’t surprise Coen if the second round with Mother Nature started a little earlier than the predicted midnight forecast.
“Yes, it is, actually.” Brettany looked over her shoulder as if someone might overhear them. He wanted to tell her no one in their right mind would be outside in these temperatures, but that would technically include both of them. He remained silent as she finally clued him in on what information she might have. “I remembered something about that night that I forgot to mention.”
Coen prepared himself for the inevitable questions that were sure to come the moment he let her inside the house. There were no unpacked boxes, no personal effects, and it basically looked the same as the day he’d arrived. It was the lack of Christmas decorations that would no doubt catch her attention first. Her home was like something out of Whoville. He opened the door for her anyway, following behind and trying not to groan in satisfaction as the warmth of the inside enveloped them. Damn, but he missed the Florida sun.
“Would you like some coffee?” Coen wasn’t much for the bitter brew, preferring orange juice in the morning and water during the afternoon. But he did need the aid of caffeine once in a while, so he kept some grounds on hand. Besides, a hot beverage sounded good right now. “It will only take me a few minutes to make some.”
“No, thank you,” Brettany replied as she removed her mittens. She was certainly concentrating hard on the task at hand, but Coen was fine with that. It kept her from noticing that the rental house didn’t have one item that would individualize it from any other empty property in town. His suitcase was still packed in the bedroom, though it was lying open on the floor next to his go-bag. A quick glance toward the hallway showed the door was partially closed. It was in a good enough position that she wouldn’t catch sight of his luggage. “Could we sit down?”
“Yes. Please, have a seat.” Coen shrugged out of his jacket and hung it up on the coatrack that had come as part of the packaged deal. The small house was furnished, though the furniture was quite generic. It wasn’t like he needed anything spectacular, anyway. “Are you sure I can’t get you something to drink?”
“Something stronger than coffee might actually be beneficial at this point, but I really don’t drink that much,” Brettany said with a half-smile of embarrassment.
“That’s actually commendable.” Coen was surprised when she’d let him take her coat and thanked him. He honestly thought she’d wave him off since she wouldn’t be staying long. She still had her scarf tied around her neck and a rather tight grip on those mittens. God help him if she actually crocheted them herself. He’d have to nominate her for some type of award for being the perfect woman. “Your clear recollection of the night of Heidi’s murder certainly aided in our investigation.”
The other members of the wedding party had consumed quite a bit of alcohol that evening, so their statements weren’t as reliable as Brettany’s account for what she’d witnessed. That included the times she’d seen the guests and where. Granted, she was the one to find the body, but their suspect pool was quite narrow considering the location and circumstances. Of course, that was unless Moss had discovered the remote site and decided it had been an ideal opportunity to make another selection to drive home his point.
Coen was aware his opinion was a little far-fetched, but Brettany and Heidi were similar in their builds. Add on the fact that they both had naturally curly brown hair, and it sure as hell would have been easy to get the two confused if someone needed to get in and out quickly under the cover of the storm. It was possible the killer had mistaken Heidi for Brettany in the weather, especially with the guests all bundled up the way everyone had been because of the weather. It was either that or Heidi had a connection to Shailyn Doyle that none of them had been able to uncover as of yet.
“You asked me that night about the blood in the snow,” Brettany said, taking the overstuffed chair that had seen much better days. She sat on the edge of the cushion and leaned forward, almost as if she needed reassurance about what she remembered. “I told you that my flashlight landed a couple of feet away and that I saw no footprints. But that’s not exactly true.”
“What do you mean?” Coen didn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable in any way, so he took a seat on the couch. Her green eyes were situated squarely on him and his reaction. It was then he caught sight of the fact that she was scared. “Do you recall seeing something in the snow?”
“I assumed the snow was disturbed because of the guests walking back and forth to the main cabin, but you said that Heidi had been…” Brettany’s words trailed off as she collected herself. Coen didn’t forget that she had been friends with the deceased for quite a long time, and the death of someone close to her was no doubt hard to accept. “You mentioned that the medical examiner put her death earlier that day. The snow shouldn’t have been disturbed at all at the rate it was falling. What I’m trying to say is that someone deliberately tried to wipe away their footprints, as if they’d just been made. Why would the killer have come back after getting away clean?”