Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 99132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 496(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 496(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
“Good. Stay covered.” He clicked off.
Laurel levered up to see Huck leap out of one truck, his gun out. Then he pulled Aeneas out of the back. Agent Norrs barreled out of the other truck, and they both headed into the forest toward the mountain, their flashlights bobbing in the rain.
“Laurel?” Nester called out. “Report?”
Laurel watched the moving flashlights. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, and her vision wavered as the adrenaline started to ebb in her body. Her hands began to shake. “Captain Rivers and Agent Norrs are in the woods, but I heard a truck engine before they arrived. I think we’re secure.”
“Huck and Wayne?” Abigail called out with a small chuckle. “How sweet. Our big, bad men are protecting us, Laurel. Don’t you just love it?”
Walter, back to the wall on the other side of the window with rain and wind blowing in, looked at her, his eyes narrowed and his chest heaving. “That chick is batshit crazy, boss,” he whispered.
Chapter 26
The rain pounded against the windows of the Fish and Wildlife office in a relentless, feral downpour. The storm had swept in from the north, thick and punishing, drenching the world outside with icy precision.
In their conference room, Laurel cupped her hands around the mug of coffee cooling in front of her. She preferred her own office to the Fish and Wildlife conference room—less cluttered, more secure. But with her own window currently a twisted, shattered mess thanks to the sniper’s attack, Walter had insisted she use this space instead. Away from open sight lines, with walls thick enough to provide some degree of protection.
Across from her, Agent Norrs shifted in his chair, his shirt still wet from the storm. The dark fabric clung to his shoulders, highlighting the compact, muscular build of a man who looked like he could break through concrete. With his bald head and flat, dark eyes, he looked even tougher than usual.
The speakerphone in the middle of the table crackled, and Deputy Director McCromby’s voice cut through the static.
“So you didn’t find the shooter,” McCromby growled, his voice clipped and irritable, the fatigue of late-night duty evident. It was nearly three hours later in DC.
“No, sir,” Norrs said, running a hand over his scalp, the wetness glistening under the harsh lights. “We swept the forest. There’s an old logging road that cuts toward the mountain. He was gone by the time we got there. It’s raining heavily, and I doubt there’ll be any evidence when the techs go back out tomorrow morning.”
Laurel took a deep breath and tightened her hold around the coffee mug. The chill from her damp jacket hadn’t fully left her bones, and the uneven temperature in the conference room wasn’t helping her warm up. “We’ve swept the entire building,” she said, her voice even. “The only shots fired went through my window.”
“So the shooter knows which office is yours,” McCromby interjected, the line crackling.
“Possibly.” Laurel’s mind clicked through the facts, fitting them into place like puzzle pieces—most of them still wrong, the edges ragged and frayed. “But it was after hours. I walked into the building, and Walter hadn’t gone to his office. Even though we had the blinds drawn, my office was probably the only one with illumination seeping through.”
“So this asshole felt fine firing into an FBI office, not caring who he hit?” McCromby snapped, his irritation palpable.
Agent Norrs wiped wetness off his face. “Apparently. We’re still looking through Laurel’s previous cases, but nothing stands out. Nobody’s been recently released, and so far every lead we’ve tracked down hasn’t panned out.”
Laurel leaned back, her shoulders stiff. The incongruity gnawed at her like a dull ache. “Regarding my case, the real outlier is Mark Bitterson, the petty criminal found dead in the woods days after he rammed his truck into Walter and me, his passenger firing at us. Neither of them were snipers. They were different attackers than the sniper who hit Abigail and Dr. Sandoval.”
“So, in other words, somebody has a hit out on you,” Agent Norrs said grimly. His gaze cut to her, his expression more concerned than she’d expected.
Laurel cleared her throat. “Bitterson has lesions on his brain, which connects him to the Dr. Liu case. Nothing in his past shows he’d take a contract killing. This just isn’t adding up for me.”
“Why not?” McCromby barked.
She was still missing something. “What if the two situations aren’t related? What if two people want me dead? It seems unlikely, but . . .”
“You’re onto something, but you’re not sure what,” McCromby growled. “I need certainty, Snow.”
“I don’t have it. Yet.”
McCromby cleared his throat, the sound thick and irritated. “What’s the plan?”
Norrs glanced at Laurel before looking down at the speakerphone. “I’m thinking Agent Snow should take a leave of absence.”
Laurel’s muscles tensed. She turned sharply to face him, eyes narrowed. “Absolutely not.”