Carla Neggers - Cold Pursuit

The Whittakers had invited her to lunch, but she wasn’t hungry. She reined in her impatience, reminding herself that, for all intents and purposes, she was the outsider here. “What’s going on, A.J.?”

“Nothing that involves Ambassador Bruni’s death or concerns the Secret Service.”

“That you know of,” she said.

He didn’t respond. If any Cameron had reason to resent her, it was A.J., who was responsible for keeping the lodge competitive, an attractive option to visitors to Vermont. Direct access to the lake would help. She hadn’t gotten so far as to think about selling or leasing her property, let alone broaching the subject with him.

“Is there anything I should know about your father’s death?” she asked bluntly.

A.J. gave her a steady look. “It was a tragedy.”

“I know that, A.J.”

“Do you, Jo?” He turned back to the fire, staring at the hot, glowing coals. “You must have wished him a rough passing.”

“No. Not ever. Even at my most brokenhearted and angriest, I understood that he did what any father who cared about a son like Elijah would have done-at least any father with guts.”

“He cared about you, too,” A.J. said quietly.

She nodded. “Yes, I know that now. I didn’t at the time. Elijah did well in the army, despite the hardships he faced. And things worked out for me. I’m happy.”

“Are you?” A.J. gave her a brief glance, then looked back at the fire. “Elijah always wanted to come back to Vermont. Assuming he lived. Not you. You wanted out of Black Falls, Jo, and you got out.”

“You make living here sound like a prison sentence.”

“Isn’t that what you thought?”

“For five minutes at seventeen, maybe. Not anymore.”

“Elijah didn’t want to hem you in.”

“Hem me in? A.J., it’s been fifteen years. Elijah and I went our separate ways a long time ago.”

A.J. moved back from the fire. “I think he always envisioned you being here when he got home. One way or the other.”

“That’s romantic B.S., and you know it.”

He grinned. “You’re tough as nails.”

But she felt Elijah’s mouth on hers, saw the spark of desire in his eyes…a kind of soul-deep longing that she knew was mostly her imagination at work. She warned herself against reading too much-anything-into an impulsive kiss.

She stiffened, refocused on why she’d come up to the lodge. “Why is Elijah looking for Devin?”

“Okay, I give up,” A.J. said, not particularly harshly. “Elijah’s on the falls trail. Go ahead. Try to catch up with him if you want.”

“You figure you’ve bought him enough time.”

“No, Jo.” He gave her a small grin. “I figure Elijah can handle you.”

“Before I leave here today, A.J., you and your brother are going to level with me about what’s going on.”

“Don’t get lost.”

Jo left through the front entrance. The wind went right through her fleece jacket, and she almost reconsidered the pie, the book and the fire. Hunching her shoulders against the cold, she walked over to the edge of the road. The lodge trails were part of a network of recreational trails on state, federal and private land. Nora Asher could go for miles-days-if she wanted to. She’d started out a few hours ago. Who knew where she could be now?

Cameron Mountain rose up above the open fields across the quiet road. Jo hadn’t spent much time up here in recent years-and she’d repressed a lot of memories, since most of them involved Elijah.

She heard laughter behind her and turned, seeing Lauren, A.J.’s wife of five years, who was businesslike but not as flinty as her husband, and their four-year-old son and two-year-old daughter. The little ones were running in circles on the grass, the wind catching the ends of their blond hair, their cheeks rosy red as they squealed in delight.

They made an abrupt ninety-degree turn and bolted back toward the lodge. In an instant, Jo saw why, as A.J. walked out and scooped up his children.

She felt a tug of emotion she didn’t expect.

“I wake up on cold mornings and see the grandchildren you and Elijah should have had…”

Jo got out of there, quickly crossing the road, making her way onto a beaten-down grass path that would take her through the field and out to the falls trail. She wasn’t equipped for a full-fledged hike in the mountains, but she’d do her best to pick up Elijah’s trail.

Ryan “Grit” Taylor stood in front of the hotel where Alexander Bruni had met his end six hours ago. Cabs, limos, delivery trucks and regular cars packed the street now, but Grit knew the cops hadn’t all disappeared once they’d released the scene. He didn’t see them, but there was no question they were there. The D.C. police, the FBI, maybe even a Diplomatic Security Service or Secret Service agent or two.

An ambassador getting run down on a Washington street was a big deal.

Television reporters had set up a little ways past the revolving doors for live shots and were on the lookout for anyone who’d been there that morning.

Bruni had been run over on a bad spot on a bad street. Grit had been out there for ten minutes, and with the traffic, the distracted tourists, he decided it was not out of the realm of possibility for Bruni to have been hit by accident. A busy man with a lot on his mind crosses the street without looking, and-that’s it. He’s done.

Leaving the scene was another matter. That didn’t look good.

Moose Ferrerra, a fellow Navy SEAL, materialized next to Grit. “The Grim Reaper comes for you fast or slow. Either way, he always wins.”

“I know, Moose,” Grit said. “I know.”

Moose didn’t respond. He looked the same as he had thirteen years ago on his first day of SEAL training. Fresh, young, eager, cocky. Nothing like he had in April when the Grim Reaper had swooped down on their position in eastern Afghanistan.

A hellish mountain pass, newly opened after the harsh winter. A helicopter with mechanical trouble. Heavily armed, pissed-off bad guys.

Not a great combo.

Grit and Moose and the rest of their SEAL team had joined up with a Special Forces unit to take out a series of enemy weapons caches. Everything went fine until the SEAL exfiltration. The Green Berets stayed behind to protect friendly local villagers, who’d helped pinpoint the caches, from retaliation and continue their work.

The helicopter ran into problems almost immediately and was forced to make a hard landing in an enemy hot spot.

Moose was shot first. Then Grit. Then Elijah Cameron and his guys came to their aid.

Elijah was shot.

It had been a long night.

Grit was convinced that the Grim Reaper had come for him, not Moose, and he still didn’t know why things hadn’t worked out the way they’d been meant to. He only knew that he should have died that night. It wasn’t superstition or pessimism or depression-it was dead-on certainty.

He knew he should be dead.

And he wasn’t grateful he’d survived. Most days, he wished he hadn’t.

Which annoyed the hell out of Moose. “My friend, you need to get an attitude of gratitude.”

Moose’s voice. Clear as a bell. He was right, too. As always.

Grit watched Washington types go through the revolving doors into the hotel lobby. It was too early for happy hour, but he had learned, since Elijah’s call, that the hotel was a favorite for meetings, from multi-day conventions to an afternoon workshop on how to sell mortgages.

Bruni had likely been on his way to some sort of power breakfast in the hotel dining room. Or maybe breakfast by himself. Never mind that he was an ambassador, he had to eat.

Grit stepped out of the way for a brisk woman pushing a baby in a stroller the size of a VW Bug. She didn’t make eye contact with him. Neither did her cute, slobbering, baldheaded bambino.