Jenna Ryan - Mistletoe and Murder

“I’m not sure playing cat and mouse is the best idea here, Knight.” Romana scanned the dash. “What’s your dispatch number?”

“Ninety-one-Vector.”

She would have called it in if he hadn’t reached over and removed the radio from her hand. “No backup, okay? Let’s keep this unofficial.” When she started to argue, he added an even, “Like you are.”

She blinked, drew her hand back. For a single, unguarded moment, she’d slapped on her old hat, the one she’d packed away after a few short years on the force, a painful personal evaluation and a brief struggle with guilt.

Still amazed by the easy switch, she refocused on their pursuer. “He’s pulled to within thirty feet.”

“He’s also using his high beams.” Jacob squinted into the mirror. “Can you make out the vehicle type?”

“I think it’s a GM off-road. Dark color. No front plates. And either he’s speeding up or you’re slowing down, because he’s ten feet off your back bumper.”

As she spoke, the truck’s engine revved. The vehicle leaped forward, rammed into Jacob’s SUV, backed off and prepared to charge again.

“This is ridiculously predictable.” Romana fought a ripple of fear with irritation.

After another solid hit, Jacob unsnapped his holster. “Can you shoot out a front tire?”

“Yes, but that’ll make things pretty official.”

He handed her his gun. “Just don’t kill him.”

Lowering the window, she braced her left knee on the seat and waited for the truck to close again. “You’d think a guy who’d spent most of his youth in the Amazon jungle would be a bit more inventive, wouldn’t you?”

Jacob checked the side mirrors. “Whatever works, Romana.”

She started to lean out but was suddenly jerked sideways as Jacob swerved yet again. Unanchored, she toppled into his arm, and almost into his lap.

“Jacob, what are you…”

“Civilians.”

She pulled herself upright. Shoving the hair from her eyes, she peered through the snow until she spotted a pair of men in baggy parkas. They were carrying lunch boxes and holding their hoods up with their free hands.

Behind her, the truck’s engine roared again. Snow spat out from under all four tires.

With her rib cage pressed to the door, Romana stuck her head and hands through the window, took aim and fired.

The truck immediately skidded sideways, struck a mailbox and spun in a wild half circle.

The engine subsided for a moment, then gave a growl like an enraged bull. More streams of snow shot upward. The back end of the truck fishtailed before gaining traction. With the front bumper now pointed toward the city, it bounced across a corner lot and vanished into the darkness.

Jacob reversed.

“Wait.” Romana caught his arm. “Critch knocked the mailbox onto one of those men.”

Clearly frustrated, he watched the taillights fade.

She hopped out and ran to the sidewalk where the second man kneeled next to his friend. “Are you hurt?”

“Foot’s caught.” The pinned man’s breath whooshed out. “Was that guy playing chicken with you?”

“In a way.” Going to her knees, Romana examined his trapped foot. “There’s a cushion of snow under your ankle. It might have prevented a break.”

“We should call the police.” The man’s friend fumbled for his cell phone. “That guy was a nutcase.”

“It’s covered.” Jacob revealed the badge on his waistband. Crouching, he snagged the top corner of the box. “On three,” he said to Romana.

Within seconds, the trapped man was free. He flexed his foot. “Feels okay,” he said in relief. He frowned at Jacob. “Don’t chases involving the police usually work the other way round? You go after him?”

“Guy’s a nutcase,” his friend repeated. “He started shouting when his tire blew. I didn’t catch all of it, but I heard the last part clear enough.”

She didn’t want to know, Romana told herself. Really didn’t want to know. “Can you tell us what he said?” she asked.

“Yeah, he said this was the first threat. How many more you get depends on how he feels. But the real thing’s coming, and when it does, it’s gonna make you real dead. Then he spun his tires and yelled, ‘Merry Christmas, murderers.’”

IT WAS DONE, ANOTHER THREAT had been delivered. Damn, but he felt good.

He knew when he wanted to do it; the gray area remained the manner of their execution.

He’d been working on his plan of revenge for years, since before those prison doors had clanged shut. He’d created and re-created Christmas cards for both of them, constructed and deconstructed a thousand bloody scenarios. He’d visualized them in death. He’d pictured himself placing mistletoe on their graves.

Whatever else he did, however it went down, mistletoe would be included in the killings, because mistletoe leaves had been scattered around Belinda’s cold body.

Could you strangle a person with it? He didn’t think so. Stab a rough sprig through a frantically beating heart? Probably not.

He pictured Romana Grey. She had a dazzling face, and, he suspected, an equally amazing body. Another time and place…

No, he wouldn’t think like that. Couldn’t. He was going to kill her. Knight would watch, then he would die. Revenge complete, all wrapped up like the perfect Christmas present.

It would be perfect, too, because no matter how long and hard the authorities searched afterward, they wouldn’t find their man. Warren Critch knew the Amazon basin as well as anyone alive. He wasn’t about to be captured.

A dark Christmas song dribbled out of the radio. Sadly, he couldn’t run Romana and Jacob over with a reindeer-he’d have enjoyed that-but he could shoot them. And with something other than bullets.

Ah, yes, now there was a tantalizing prospect. He wouldn’t implement it too soon, of course. They needed to suffer first as Belinda had, but in time, in time…

Smiling, he picked up a handful of darts and began launching them at the wall. The first one struck Jacob Knight in the throat, the second got Romana Grey below her lovely left breast.

His smile widened. Killing them was going to be worth the six-year wait.

With the exception of several colorful additions during the holiday season, nothing ever really changed at the station house. Reports were typed in cubbies by officers who’d rather be anywhere than behind a computer. Suspects, cuffed and uncuffed, shuffled in and out, phones rang, conversations ebbed and flowed. Once in a while, an overstressed lieutenant barked out an order.

By early December, tinsel had been stapled around desk fronts, and most of the tall plants were draped with twinkling lights. An animated Santa ho-ho-hoed boisterously in the corner. Menorahs stood next to fiber-optic pine trees, snowflakes hung from the ceiling, and there were snowmen and penguins plastered to every glass partition. As a rule, no less than three platters of cakes and cookies sat on the front desk, the largest being in full view of the captain’s office.

Jacob entered through the alleyway door. He snagged a raisin square, made a detour to Records, then headed upstairs to the homicide division. Night would give way to day in less than an hour, but O’Keefe, being an early riser, invariably arrived long before his shift began.

“Morning, Detective Knight.” A pretty female dispatcher offered the cheerful greeting. “Captain Harris wants to see you.”

“On my way.”

As he passed, she picked up a shortbread cookie and let it dangle from her fingertips. “Are you coming to the Christmas party?”

Jacob couldn’t remember her name. Her badge said Officer Dyson. “I’m not big on Christmas.”