TANGLED PAST

After Ian Stone discovers he was kidnapped when he was a baby, he journeys to his “family’s” hometown—and is shot at shortly after he arrives. Now he’s convinced the Spencers don’t want their long-lost brother, Luke, to return and claim his inheritance. But local chief of police Sylvie Laurent doesn’t believe his siblings would try to kill him. And the stubborn woman is determined to protect him until she uncovers the truth. At first, Sylvie is skeptical of Ian’s story...but he bears a strong resemblance to the Spencers. And they’ll have to work together to stay ahead of the danger if they want to live to see him reunited with his family at Christmas.

“Did you just arrive in Norcastle?” she asked pointedly. He could tell she was fishing.

“I came in on the bus last night.”

“Were people shooting at you before you came to town?”

“Nope. Is this how you welcome newcomers?”

“Hardly. I’d lose my job for sure. I will find out who did this, Mr. Stone.”

“Oh, that’s easy. I already know who wants me dead.” He grunted as he slipped his arms in a chambray shirt, stained with dirt from many hours on the job.

“Well, do tell. I can’t help you if you’re withholding information.”

“The Spencers.”

Sylvie let out a laugh. Such a loud, robust sound for a little lady. Ian pictured the chief of police issuing orders in the same tone. People would take notice of her, although she’d had his attention long before she opened her mouth to speak.

KATY LEE writes suspenseful romances that thrill and inspire. She believes every story should stir and satisfy the reader—from the edge of their seat. A native New Englander, Katy loves to knit warm, woolly things. She enjoys traveling the side roads and exploring the locals’ hideaways. A homeschooling mom of three competitive swimmers, Katy often writes from the stands while cheering them on. Visit Katy at katyleebooks.com.

High Speed Holiday

Katy Lee

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives.

—Genesis 50:20

To my dad, John. I love that you are my biggest fan.

And I love you.

Acknowledgments

I am so grateful for my editors at Harlequin Love Inspired Suspense for their help and insights in making the Roads to Danger series come alive. Thank you, Emily Rodmell, Shana Asaro and Giselle Regus. Your enthusiasm made all the difference.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Bible Verse

Dedication

Acknowledgments

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EPILOGUE

Dear Reader

Extract

Copyright

ONE

Was a cop ever really off duty?

Chief of Police Sylvie Laurent didn’t think so. She freed her hands from her wool gloves and pocketed them in her winter police coat.

Then she unclipped her gun holster.

Trouble never waited for her to clock in, and it wasn’t about to start now.

Even when it posed as a good-looking man sporting a golden tan.

“You’re not in Kansas anymore,” she mumbled aloud, heading the stranger’s way. Or, with his bronze skin maybe she should say Cali.

He appeared like a black sheep against a sea of snow white—the snow-covered grounds of Spencer Speedway, as well as the paled complexions of the townspeople he pushed through. It would be months before any of them glowed a golden bronze like that, maybe not ever.

So, who was he? And why was he here?

A group of local children with cotton candy frozen to their cold faces cut in front of her, innocent to the possible threat at the annual Jingle Bell Jam celebration. The Christmas event put on by the Spencer family for longer than Sylvie could remember wasn’t a tourist attraction. It was something the Spencers offered to their employees every year to start off the holiday festivities. That included pretty much everyone in Norcastle, New Hampshire, but it did not include this guy.

A horn from the racetrack blew. Sylvie kept walking, even though she knew she was expected down in the pits. The small 1940s reproduction cars called Legends were set to compete on the track in ten minutes. Sets of snow tires strapped under the carriages of the tiny vehicles would give the crowd some excitement as the teen division of drivers raced to the finish line in the annual Legends snow race. Her son would be among them—and expect her to be on the sidelines.

Duty calls. Sorry, Jaxon.

The stranger’s eyes met hers, chilling her with their hold. There was something about their ice-blue color that was so familiar. With one blink, he took them away and dismissed her.

Bad move, mister.

Sylvie picked up her steps to cut him off, but three teenage boys stepped in front of the guy, blocking her path. Just a few feet from making contact, she ran into one of the boys, knocking something to the ground. A glance down and her plans changed in an instant.

A can of beer lay in the snow.

She picked it up. “Belong to you?” she asked one of the teens, noticing his bulkier-than-normal parka. A closer look at all three boys, the same age as her fourteen-year-old son, and she noticed they were all smugglers today.

Sylvie took her last look at the black sheep’s retreating back and decided he would have to wait.

“Unless you boys want to be cuffed and stuffed in the backseat of my cruiser, I suggest you hand over the alcohol you have in your pockets.”

Bret Dolan, the son of Norcastle’s mayor, flicked his straight, dirty blond bangs from his eyes and lifted a defiant chin to Sylvie.

Like father, like son.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the boy spouted. “That’s not ours. That was already on the ground. We just have a couple sodas.” The boy lifted a cola out of his pocket. “See?”

Sylvie reached inside her navy blue uniform coat. “Shall I call your parents, Bret, for the show when I search you? I’m game for an audience.” Sylvie took out her cell phone. She checked the bars and saw none, but she didn’t let on about the lack of coverage, which was spotty in these mountains on most days.

On a huff, the Dolan kid reached into his other pocket and withdrew a can of beer. He jammed it over to Sylvie.

“Crack it open and pour it out,” she instructed without touching it.

“Really? You can’t be serious.” Bret’s distaste for the whole event became even more evident as each of the boys followed suit with the same task, their lifted spirits at getting away with something doused right along with the six-pack of beer now on the snow around them.

“I’m very serious. I care for your safety, Bret, even if you don’t see that right now.”

“You don’t care for me. You just hate alcohol because your mother drank herself to death when you got knocked up.”

The horn from the racetrack blew again, but its penetrating sound paled in comparison to the pulsing of blood pumping behind Sylvie’s ears at Bret’s remark. She bit back a lethal response. She was sure the boy was only repeating what he’d heard his father say. “Why aren’t you racing today, Bret? You should be out there.”

“Mind your business,” the boy spouted off. Again his dad’s words. She let Bret’s disrespect go...for now.

“The next time I catch you, I take you in,” Sylvie said. She looked Bret in the eyes, holding his attention on her. “Tell your mom I said hi.”

He blinked a few times. Then he sent her a scathing look as his friends dragged him away.

She hoped someday he would see that she cared for his safety, his and his mom’s. She prayed it would be soon. For now, though, she had a stranger to find.

Sylvie hit the button to her radio on her shoulder. “Preston, Buzz, Chief here. I know you’re at the track. Be on the lookout for an adult male in his early thirties, shaggy black hair and black leather coat, about six feet in height. Not from around here. Just want to make sure he’s not about to cause any problems.”

“10-4, Chief” came a response from one of her lieutenants.

Scanning the crowds in the grandstand and still finding no sign of the black sheep, she entered through the fence marked Authorized Personnel and sought out the number eleven coupe her son drove. He weaved his tiny yellow car in a wavy line with the other racers, who were warming up their reflexes for the start of the race. The yellow flags waved, but as soon as the lead car approached the starting line, it would be go time.

She hadn’t missed it after all.

As a single parent with a full-time job there was a lot she missed in her son’s life. It caused a wedge.

She sighed at the growing distance between her and her son and thanked God that Jaxon was behind the wheel today and not smuggling alcohol with Bret and his gang.

Thank You, Lord, for watching out for him when I can’t. Just as You watched out for me fourteen years ago. You never left me to raise him alone.

Unlike Jaxon’s birth father.

Unlike everyone else in her family.

The starting horn blared. The green flags waved like crazy. The crowds behind her in the towering grandstand cheered. The race was on.

Sylvie watched her son take the lead from the number eight car. His tiny vehicle roared as its motorcycle engine was pushed to the max. She fisted a hand in the air. “Go, Jaxon!”

Her son had been racing cars since he was six, starting with little go-karts. It wasn’t a cheap sport, by any means, but Sylvie worked extra shifts to give him something he could be proud of and work toward, something that kept him off the streets. She hadn’t been too excited about him following in his birth father’s footsteps, but she lived in a racing town and it was hard to steer Jaxon in other directions. Her brother was out in the world following circuit after circuit, racing on tracks in strange and exotic locales now. She’d barely heard from him since Mom had died.

Jaxon lost the lead, and Sylvie snapped out of her reverie, especially when his wheels swerved off to the left.

What was he doing? Sylvie rushed forward a few steps, but knew she couldn’t get any closer to the track to find out. She scanned the area for Roni Spencer Rhodes, her son’s trainer and owner of the racetrack. Would Roni know if something was wrong?

Sylvie spotted her friend in a white down coat and matching hat and scarf, her long red hair whipped a bit in the cold wind. She wore a headset that had to be connected to Jaxon. Sylvie headed Roni’s way, but as she approached, she noticed out of the corner of her eye someone else approaching Roni.

The stranger!

He had no business being behind the fence.

His ice-blue eyes targeting Roni dead-on said otherwise.

The race became immediately forgotten. Sylvie reached for her weapon. “Stop right there!” She raised her voice to be heard over the motors.

The unidentified man came to an abrupt halt.

Sylvie took three determined steps, her hand curled around her gun’s handle. A bang from the track echoed through the valley, bouncing off the surrounding White Mountains and back again.

The man flew forward at her and fell to his knees. Sylvie withdrew her gun and took aim. The crowds in the grandstand inhaled and shouted at the same time. Had they all seen her draw her weapon?

Or was something else going down on the track that claimed their attention?

A quick glance showed a mass of cars piling up and flipping. Number eleven’s wheels were overturned.

Jaxon!

Sylvie wanted to run to him but the stranger now lay facedown on the snow, blood spatter around him, stark in its rich contrast of dark on light, like the man himself.

He was injured.

But how?

Torn between him and her son, Sylvie holstered her weapon and dropped to the stranger’s side. A hole in the arm of his leather coat showed where an object had entered his body. Something flying off the track?

She inspected at a closer range.

No. A bullet.

Sylvie took in the perimeter in short, jerky perusals for a shooter in the area.

No time. She had to first take care of the victim.

She lifted the man under his arms and dragged him behind a snow pile. A groan told her he was conscious.

“Sir, I’m Chief Sylvie Laurent. Can you tell me your name?” she yelled over the ensuing chaos around her.

“Ian Stone,” the man groaned and moved to turn.

“Stay still, Mr. Stone. I’m calling for help.” Sylvie reached for her radio.

“No!” The man raised his good hand. “No help.” He pushed himself to his knees. Blood seeped from his left shoulder, his other hand stretched across his wide chest to staunch the flow.

“Ian, I need to get you to the hospital. And you need to stay down. The shooter is still out there.”

He shook away from her grasp. “Help the drivers. Not me.” He stood up and mumbled, “I should have known they would take me out. I should have known this was too good to be true.” He half ran, half staggered to the fence exit. The alarmed crowd of spectators behind it swallowed him whole.

A war waged in Sylvie. She had to go after him. What if he bled out and died? She couldn’t have a murder in Norcastle. And a murder it would be. She knew a gunshot when she saw one. The crash had muffled the sound, and the mountains...

Sylvie looked to the lofty peaks overlooking the racetrack.

The mountains were hiding a killer. The marksman could be out there somewhere on Mount Randolph. He could go after Ian Stone again.

Sylvie hit her radio to call her team, but all emergency personnel were flooding the track to help the drivers, the kids.

The place she needed to be, too.

Jaxon.

Sylvie zeroed in on her son being lifted from his car, awake but limping, his pale blond hair that matched her own shielded his eyes, but he was talking. Her heart lodged in her throat as she watched him enter one of the ambulances opened and ready to whisk him off to the hospital. The police and paramedics had everything under control, and he was in good hands.

Sylvie stepped in the direction Ian Stone had staggered off in, the direction she was needed most.

Her conflicted steps turned to a full, determined run.

She’d known Ian Stone was trouble the second she’d laid eyes on him.

But apparently, someone else did, too.

* * *

Ian slammed the door of the studio apartment he’d rented the day before. Carrying a pharmacy bag, he put it between his teeth as he tore off his coat and dropped it to the wood floor of the old factory mill, now turned into living quarters. The brick building was one of many along the river in this old New England mill town—a place he supposedly had been born in thirty years ago, but hadn’t known existed until two weeks ago.

The bullet hole in his arm said someone wasn’t happy about him finding out.

Pain from his shoulder seared like an unrelenting burn. Of course it had to be his already injured arm. Two weeks ago he’d had surgery on his shoulder for a bad rotator cuff, an injury he’d had for years but left unrepaired for lack of funds. Working construction these past two years for Alex Sarno had finally given him enough to check himself into a hospital for the procedure.

But how would he pay for a gunshot wound?

The Spencer money perhaps? And not because he’d taken a bullet on their property. According to the guy who’d shown up in his hospital room after the surgery, their money was also his money.

All these years he had an inheritance to claim and never knew.

Thirty years ago, a car was pushed over the side of a mountain. The crash left two very rich parents dead and their three children orphans. Except when the smoke cleared and the blaze was extinguished, only two children were accounted for. Little eighteen-month-old Luke Spencer’s body had never been recovered.

Instead, he grew up across the country in a cabin in the Washington mountains, playing the unwanted son to Phil and Cecilia Stone.

Ian bit hard as he ripped off his green T-shirt, the words Sarno Construction scrawled across the front. His wound seeped blood, but not at an alarming rate. He would live to collect his inheritance and soon the T-shirts would read Sarno and Stone. Alex had already offered him a partnership. The idea of being a business owner was more than a dream come true. Things like this didn’t happen to Ian Stone, or Ian the Idiot as his father called him too many times to count.

But he wasn’t Ian Stone, if he believed the guy in his hospital room. He was the missing sibling, Luke Spencer.

Judging by the poor welcome home, however, his brother and sister didn’t want to share the wealth. But would they take another shot at him to see they didn’t have to?

Ian bounded around the sofa bed and pulled the blinds closed just in case. With his teeth he ripped the package of cleansing wipes open.

A bang on his door jerked him alert.

“Now’s not a good time!” he shouted. He hoped it was just the landlady, Mrs. Wilson or Wilton, or whatever. A busybody was what she was. So many questions. Where are you from, Mr. Stone? Do you have family in Norcastle, Mr. Stone? Perhaps I know them. What are their names?

“But at least she didn’t shoot me,” he muttered, then seethed when the alcohol splashed over his wound.

The door knocked again, harder.

“Go away!” he yelled, biting through the pain.

“Ian Stone, this is Police Chief Sylvie Laurent. I need you to open this door.”

The cop from the track? The one with the eyes. Great. “I did nothing wrong. Leave me alone!”

“Sir, I didn’t say you did anything wrong. But you were shot right in front of me. It’s my job to make sure you live. Open this door, or I will call for backup and do this the hard way.”

Backup? That’s all he needed, people in uniform taking sides. They’d probably arrest him for extortion. Ian figured he could play the victim to the little slip of a woman they called chief. The fact that she was the chief stumped him.

She shouldn’t be too hard to get rid of.

Ian opened the door ajar. “I’m fine, Officer, really. I can take care—”

The door banged in on him with a force that sent him backward. She jammed a thumb over her shoulder as she pushed past him. Dark blotches of blood drops lay stark against the snow behind her. “You’re dripping. You are not fine. Now take a seat,” she commanded, pointing to the stool at the breakfast bar.

The cop washed her hands, ignoring the fact that Ian remained standing. She removed a pair of latex gloves from a compartment on her belt. “Sit,” she said and slapped them on.

He obeyed and she quickly cleaned his wound and prodded around for the bullet.

Her ministrations killed, but Ian wasn’t about to let on in the presence of this small, but tough, woman. While on the stool, their eye levels matched.

Green.

He smiled.

“I’m sorry I’m hurting you,” she said without glancing up from his wound.

“Hurting? Nah, not at all. I could stay here all day.” He leaned closer to her face, zeroing in on her almond-shaped eyes. “They’ve got to be jade.”

“What does?” she asked absently.

“Your eyes. They’re the inspiration of epic poems. Marlowe, Yeats, Ovid. I’m not sure any of the greats would do them justice. When I saw you at the track, I thought it was a trick of the sun, but it wasn’t. Has anyone ever told you how beautiful they are?”

A startled look from under long curved lashes came his way. Her eyes narrowed. “Has anyone ever told you, you are a glutton for pain?” She pushed her finger through his wound.

Ian yelled out and bit down under her digging. He moaned and gagged and stopped breathing as she continued, succumbing under her thumb to being a puddle of feebleness.

Her gloved fingers removed the bullet and she held it up to him with a brilliant smile of victory. “Got it.”

The slug blurred in front of him and he gagged again. “I think I’m going to pass out.” He’d still yet to breathe.

“It’s possible. You also need stitches to stop the bleeding.” She put the bullet in a small plastic bag she took from another belt compartment and reached for the bandages. “I need to take you to the hospital.”

“No.” Ian straightened, swallowing the bile rising in his throat. “You obviously know what you’re doing. Just do what you have to do and stitch me up.”

She applied butterfly bandages to pull the holes closed, but shook her head. “Sir, these won’t hold. You need to let me take you.”

“You gonna pay for it?”

She stilled her hand. “You don’t want help because of finances?”

“More like lack of them.”

“You don’t need to worry about that.”

“You obviously never had to enter a hospital without a way to pay for your visit.”

The chief frowned.

He’d upset her. The idea of hurting her made him feel like a creep. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“We all have our stories, but I can tell you the hospital will not turn you away, no matter what yours is. Trust me. Let me bring you. It’s only about a thirty-minute ride.”

“Thanks, but you can save the gas.”

“I have to go there anyway. That crash at the track? My son was in it. He’s probably already flipping out that I’m not there.”

Ian studied the officer’s face for what she wasn’t saying. He detected a glimpse of fear, and suddenly she wasn’t just a cop. She was a mom. “Was he badly hurt?” Ian asked.

Her eyelids closed on a sigh. “No, I thank the Lord that he walked away. Barely, but he walked.” She reopened them and got back to work on his arm. “So you see, I do need to get over there. We’re all each of us has.”

“No dad in the picture?” He felt odd asking, as if it was any of his business.

“Not needed.” Her answer was even stranger.

But then Ian thought of his own old man, and understood her statement perfectly. “The man who raised me died recently. I hadn’t seen him in ten years. Not needed. I get it.”

“So, you’ll let me take you?”

“I have a feeling that’s not really a question.”

“It’s not, and every second that goes by is making my son feel abandoned.”

“Way to tack on the guilt. Fine. For your son’s sake. Let me grab another shirt, then my coat...what’s left of it.”

Sylvie taped the gauze in place and he reached for his duffel bag, his clothes still jammed inside, unpacked.

“Did you just arrive in Norcastle?” she asked pointedly, obviously fishing.

“I came in on the bus yesterday.”

“Were people shooting at you before you came to town?”

“Nope. Is this how your town welcomes newcomers?”

“Hardly. I’d lose my job for sure. Any idea who did this?”

“Yup.” He grunted as he slipped his arms into a chambray shirt, stained with dirt from many hours on the job.

“Well, do tell. I can’t help you if you’re withholding information.”

“The Spencers.”

Sylvie let out a laugh. Such a loud, robust sound for one so small. Ian pictured the chief of police issuing orders in the same tone. People would take notice of her, although she’d had his attention long before she opened her mouth to speak. Still, he didn’t like her laughing at him, and that’s what her reaction felt like.

“What’s so funny, Chief?”

“You are. Roni and her brother Wade are not trying to kill you. You’re completely wrong about that. Why would you think they want you dead?”

He snatched his MP3 player and headphones from the bag and stuffed them in his front blue jeans pocket. “Because they have something that belongs to me, and they don’t want to give it up.”

“Well, I don’t believe they’d put a bullet in your arm, no matter what they have of yours, but I do plan to find who did pull the trigger. There hasn’t been a premeditated murder in Norcastle in thirty years, and I want to keep it that way.” She opened the door and scanned the area before telling Ian to follow her to her cruiser.

“Who was the unfortunate victim, then?” Ian asked—as if he didn’t know.

Sylvie opened the passenger-side door for him, then came around the front of the car. Once behind the wheel, she replied, “Actually, it was Bobby and Meredith Spencer. Wade and Roni’s parents.”

And mine.

Ian faced front, revealing nothing to the local PD. He couldn’t be sure the police could be trusted. After all, his parents were murdered, pushed over the side of that mountain in their car, and the police thirty years ago called the crash an accident.

Had the police been a part of the crime?

Did they know why he had been taken from the scene?

Ian peered out from the corner of his eye at Sylvie. It was too soon to tell her.

He looked to her eyes again. Long lashes curled like a perfect Pacific Ocean wave. He didn’t believe them to be fake. She wasn’t wearing a swipe of makeup. Perfect, creamy skin, a hint of blush from the cold. She looked like a porcelain doll, so pale compared to his baked skin.

“You hanging in there, Stone?” she asked, giving her attention to him for a brief moment while she drove. “You look a little...off. Not feeling light-headed, are you?”

“Just a bit,” he said, but had to wonder if it was more from her presence than the loss of blood. He cleared his throat and scanned the mountains out his window. “I’m just not feeling the love in this town.”

“You’ll be safe with me, Ian. I promise I won’t let another shot find its mark. It’ll be me before it will be you.”

TWO

The emergency room buzzed with standing room only. Sylvie bypassed it and led Ian up to the front counter. “Good evening, Liz. I’ve got a GSW in the arm. Any way you can get him in? He’s bandaged well and the bullet is out, but he still needs stitches.”

“Anything for you, Chief.” The front-desk nurse pushed a clipboard over to Sylvie.

“Can you also tell me where Jaxon is?”

“Curtain three.”

“Great, you’ll find us waiting in there. Stay close and follow,” she said to Ian.

They passed by the waiting room and a familiar redhead jumped up from her chair and rushed their way. “Sylvie, hold up!”

“Walk with us, Roni,” Sylvie said without halting her steps. Her friend joined them down the hall. “How’s Jaxon?”

“He’s a champ, but what took you so long getting here?”

“Roni, meet Ian. Ian, Roni Spencer.”

“I know who Veronica Spencer is,” Ian said, his voice hard and condemning. Did the man still think Roni tried to kill him? She was watching the track when everything went down. She couldn’t have shot him.

“Have we met?” Roni replied.

“No, we haven’t,” Ian clipped.

“But you know me. Are you a fan?”

“Figures you would think so, but no. I don’t follow racing.”

Sylvie leaned into Ian. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Mr. Stone. Watch it.”

“It’s all right, Sylvie,” Roni assured, but her normally bright smile dulled. However, Sylvie quickly noticed a mischievous glint spark up in the woman’s ice-blue eyes. Her friend never got offended, even when the joke was on her. She just angled those ice crystals on the other person and gave it back tenfold. A quick glance Ian’s way, and Sylvie noticed his eye color had the same hue. That’s where she’d seen it. Wade and Roni had the same eyes. Interesting that Ian’s eyes matched the Spencers’. Before Sylvie could speculate further, Roni said, “I’m sure your Ian will smarten up soon enough. It won’t take too long for him to realize what the town revolves around.”

“I assume we’re talking about you again?” Ian shot back.

“Ian!” Sylvie nearly grabbed his injured arm and threw him behind a curtain—any curtain would do. “She was talking about racing. Now knock it off. Roni is not your enemy. And, Roni—” Sylvie leveled her eyes on her friend “—he is not my Ian.”

Roni pursed her lips. “Good, because you could do so much better. He reminds me of all the locusts claiming to be our long-lost baby brother lately. We got another one this week. Now that word is getting out that Luke didn’t die in the car crash, strange men are coming out of the woodwork. Don’t they know we will have them tested?”

“Right,” Ian said with a smirk, “because you can’t let a penny of your money go to a locust.”

“All right, that’s it.” Sylvie made a grab for Ian’s good arm and twisted it up his back. He didn’t fight her as she pushed him toward curtain three. “Get in there before I throw you out the front door and let whoever shot you have another go at it.” That part she whispered, but not softly enough because her son immediately spoke from behind the curtain.

“Shot?” Jaxon said.

Sylvie opened the curtain to shush him. Anxiety she’d held at bay since the accident lifted from her shoulders at the healthy sight of him. She shoved Ian inside and turned back to Roni to see if she’d heard, but her friend only said, “He’s cute, and a worthy opponent, but watch yourself.” Sylvie wanted to set the record straight. She was in no way interested in Ian Stone. In anyone for that matter. But she knew her friend would never stop hoping she would find someone someday, like Roni had found her handsome FBI agent, Ethan Rhodes.

Sylvie yanked the curtain closed with a rattle to the metal rings above. “Sit in that chair and fill this out.” She passed over the clipboard and went to her son’s bedside to hug him, relieved he let her embrace him. After a few moments of assurance that he was alive and well she pulled back and picked up his chart to read. “How you feeling? Anything broken? Has the doctor seen you yet?”

“Leg snapped. I’m getting a boot. Who is he?” Jaxon asked, peering around Sylvie.

“He’s someone I brought in for stitches.”

“Because he got shot?”

“Yes, but’s that’s between us. Don’t go repeating that. I’m keeping him with me until I know more details.” Sylvie turned to see Ian hadn’t even clicked the pen to write his name. “The doctor won’t be able to see you until that’s filled out, Mr. Stone.”

Ian barely looked at the forms. “I told you I didn’t need this. I shouldn’t have come here.”

“Just why did you come to Norcastle? Especially if you don’t follow racing.”

“Is it a crime to want to see a mountain town in New England at Christmastime?”

“No, but you don’t fit the profile of a tourist, most know how to dress appropriately for the harsh winters. It snows practically every night up here. Did you even pack a hat and gloves? A scarf? I’d say you’re a California man. Am I right?”

“I’m impressed.”

“I don’t care if you’re impressed.” She nodded at the clipboard. “Just write it.”

Ian stared at the information sheet and clicked the pen. He clicked it again and again. Five more times at a rapid rate before he sent the clipboard clattering to the floor and jumped to his feet. He was out the curtain in an instant.

But he wasn’t faster than Chief Sylvie.

She had an arm wrapped securely around his neck and had him back behind the curtain and in his chair before anyone saw the takedown.

“Man, you thought you were going to escape my mom?” Jaxon said with a wry smile. “I could have told you not to bother. She’s got some moves.”

Ian cleared his throat and mumbled aloud, “‘And though she be but little, she is fierce.’” He ran his fingers through his hair to right it back into its unkempt style. He straightened up in his chair. “How about a warning next time, Chief?”

“It wouldn’t change anything. She’d still win.” Jaxon smirked.

“Thanks a lot, kid,” Ian said, chagrined.

“Was that Shakespeare?” Jaxon asked. “That quote about my mom being little but fierce?”

“Yeah, Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

“I’ll have to read it.”

“Here.” Ian reached into his pocket and withdrew the MP3 player. “I have the audiobook on here. You can listen to it.”

Sylvie picked the clipboard up and held it out to Ian again. “If this is about money, I already told you not to worry. It’ll get worked out.”

Ian stared at the floor. “It’s not about the money. At least not all of it.”

“Then explain. What was that outburst for?”

He hesitated, but then blurted out, “I can’t read, okay?” His gaze lifted to her.

“Whoa,” Jaxon said, but Sylvie warned her son with a shake of her head before he could say more.

“You should have just said so,” she said to Ian.

“I try to avoid being ridiculed whenever possible.” He looked away. “I have dyslexia. Words and letters make no sense to me. They’re all one big wavy line, moving around the page.”

“We won’t ridicule, right, Jaxon?” Sylvie said.

“No, man. I get enough of that at school to know it stinks.” Jaxon reached for the clipboard. “I can help you fill it out.”

Sylvie’s heart swelled with pride to see her son jump in to help a complete stranger with no judgment. But she did wonder what her son meant by experiencing enough ridicule at school. He hadn’t mentioned anything to her before about it. And it couldn’t be for his academics. The boy excelled in every subject.

Sylvie’s cell beeped with one of her lieutenants calling her. “Excuse me for a second,” she told the boys, but they didn’t seem to notice she’d said anything. The two were laughing about something Ian said was a ridiculous question on the sheet. She walked behind the curtain. “Preston, I’m glad you’re calling. I have a nonresident who’s been shot today. I need to get a report going.”

“A GSW? Drug related?”

Sylvie glanced at the closed curtain. “Possibly. The victim hasn’t given me much to go on, other than blaming it on the Spencers. I’m thinking he’s hard up for money, maybe owes someone. They retaliated by pulling the trigger. Anyway, I have the bullet. I’m bringing it in. I’ll need you to run ballistics.”

“Got it.”

“So, you called me. What do you need?”

“Nothing so full of grandeur. Just that I think I’m right about Smitty and Reggie. I found a business card for an ecologist specializing in salt contamination in Smitty’s desk. You know I think Officer Smith has been instigating the picketers over at the salt shed. He wants Reggie back as chief.” A recent wave of protesters had sprouted up in town, vocalizing their disapproval about the state of the shed that stored the season’s road salt.

“Reggie is retired from the force and doesn’t want to come back. Trust me. I’ll talk to the people over at the shed. I realize they’re worried about contamination of the river, but this is going to have to wait until I get home. Maybe even after Christmas. My son is injured.”

“Is Jaxon all right? I heard that he was going to be okay.”

“He is. But his leg is broken.”

“Should I come down?”

“Thanks, Preston, that’s nice of you to offer, but I need you holding down the fort.”

I should be back in Norcastle in a few hours.”

“What about Smitty and Reggie?”

“Like I said, Reggie is retired and Smitty will be up for retirement this year. I’m not worried that they want my job. They’ve been on the force for over thirty years, and I think I have shown them they can pass the baton. My probation period will be up in two months, and the town council will approve my position as permanent. I need you to stop worrying and just follow my orders.”

Preston huffed. “Right. Hold down the fort. It’s all you think I’m good for. I know others who would disagree.”

The line went dead. Great, another ego she would have to console.

After Christmas.

Sylvie turned on her heel and plowed right into Ian’s wide, very hard chest. The guy did some manual labor for sure.

“Is everything all right?” he asked. His piercing gaze saw too much...and sent a tingle up her spine.

The effect baffled her.

“Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t it be?” Her voice squeaked.

Her voice never squeaked.

She gave orders like a drill sergeant. Deep, loud, so there was no mistaking the fact that she was in charge. She snatched the clipboard from his hand.

Ian Stone

Construction worker for Sarno Construction

Pasadena, CA.

“Pasadena, huh? I thought money was an issue for you.”

“It’s temporary. I live in a trailer on the construction site my boss is working on. We’re building a development. Homes that I will never sleep one night in. I just build them and move on.”

She eyed him over the clipboard. Maybe Ian Stone was moving on to other ventures. Like setting up shop in Norcastle to sell drugs.

If that was the case, he would quickly learn he’d picked the wrong town to target.

And the wrong cop to dupe.

* * *

“I don’t need a shadow,” Ian stated against Sylvie’s plan for security detail. He pulled on his coat slowly. “I just need a ride back to my apartment.”

She glanced her son’s way. “The doctor wants you to stay the night. Do you mind if I leave for a while to bring Ian to the station? I want to keep an eye on him to make sure no other bullets find their way into him. You okay with me leaving, Jax?”

“No, but since when does that matter?”

“Jaxon, we made a pact. Remember? I accepted the chief position, but only because we understood the sacrifices would be on both of us. A team.”

Jaxon shrugged. “Yeah, I know what we said. It’s just...”

“Just what?”

Jaxon avoided his mother’s questioning gaze. “Never mind. It’s nothing. Just go. I’m tired anyway. I’m just going to go to sleep.”

Sylvie hesitated at her son’s brush-off. Ian thought her frown expressed a bit of sadness about something going on between the two of them. But she quickly snapped back to her stoic self and patted Jaxon’s good leg. Whatever it was wouldn’t be hashed out tonight. “Okay, kiddo, they’re getting a room ready for you. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Sylvie turned to Ian. “Stay by me.” She took the lead and Ian gave a single wave to her son.

“Bye, Ian.”

“Take care of my player, kid. It’s my window to the world.”

At the exit they stepped out into the freezing night. Sylvie held an arm up to survey the parking lot. “Looks clear.”

Ian stifled a laugh at the absurdity of the situation. She was protecting him?

If nothing else, Ian had to think Sylvie took her job seriously. He had to figure his previous concern to trust her had been unwarranted.

Still his lips remained sealed.

But so did hers. Something weighed on her mind, if her chewed-up lower lip was any indication.

It wasn’t until they made it to the interstate that Sylvie broke the void. “All right, I want to know why you’re in town, and I want the truth. Are you here to sell drugs?”

Now he did laugh. “What? Drugs?”

“I want to help you, Ian. Please let me.”

He sobered. How many times in his life had he hoped to hear those very words? Hearing them now put him in uncharted waters. What would happen if he accepted the offer?

He decided to trust her and find out.

“No drugs. But I am here for my cut.”

“Cut of what? Somebody owe you something?”

The vast blackness of the New Hampshire night shrouded and protected him. His shoulder hurt, but not only from the bullet hole. A memory that predated any surgical procedure to fix the injury caused by an abusive father flowed vivid and clear. No money in the world would ease that pain. “Nobody owes Ian Stone anything. But Luke Spencer has an inheritance coming to him.”

Sylvie slammed on the brakes, screeching the car to a halt on the side of the highway. She jammed the car into Park. “Are you telling me you think you’re the long-lost missing Spencer sibling, Luke Spencer?”

“Not think. Know.”

“You heard Roni. They’ve had a slew of men staking the claim. They will run tests.”

“Already done and passed.”

Sylvie’s dashboard lights illuminated her shocked face to an eerie version of her sweet, good-natured self. “Do you have any idea how much pain Wade and Roni have been through? The possibility of finding their missing brother has been a light at the end of a horrifying tunnel.”

“Meaning they’ll be highly disappointed they get me? That obvious?” He tried to sound indifferent and shrug it off, but deep down it hurt because he knew they would be right. He wasn’t Spencer material. He was an illiterate drifter. Not a racing star like his sister or a United States Army captain like his brother. And he couldn’t forget the grandfather in the CIA. The family was full of overachievers.

“Well, maybe if you had been a little nicer, they would be more accepting,” Sylvie said.

“And maybe if they hadn’t tried to take me out, I would be nicer.”

“I already told you the Spencers are not trying to k—” Sylvie’s words were cut off as headlights from behind neared the cruiser. The car slowed as it came up alongside the driver’s side. Sylvie rolled down her window and waved them by.

An unmistakable silhouette appeared out the car’s window.

“Gun!” Ian yelled and pulled her down with him as a bullet whizzed through the car and smashed out the passenger-side window. The car sped up and screeched away.

“Are you okay?” Sylvie yelled.

“I’m fine. You?”

“Fine.” She jammed her cruiser into Drive. “Hold on. I’m not letting this car out of my sight.” She radioed for backup to be ready for the shooter heading into Norcastle.

“You’ll never catch him,” Ian said as she sped up.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, but they don’t hand out chief of police badges to just anyone. I did have to prove my ability, even if some people don’t think I did.” She mumbled the last remark.

“I’m sure you’re a fine cop, but that is a paid assassin up there. When there are millions of dollars on the line, people will pay out big for an experienced hitman to make a problem go away. Those types of professionals generally don’t let themselves get caught.”

“So you’re back to calling out the Spencers as shooters? They would never be involved in anything so devious.”

“Then what about their CIA grandfather? I’m sure he’s got at least a handful of assassins on speed dial.”

Sylvie did a double take. “How do you know about him? That’s top secret information. The Spencers don’t tell anyone about their grandfather’s job.”

“Michael told me himself.” The use of their gramps’s name silenced her. “Michael Ackerman, some head honcho at the CIA, showed up in my hospital room two weeks ago. I went in for surgery on my shoulder for a torn rotator cuff. I woke up to find him sitting in the chair beside the bed. Apparently, he found me just as lacking as you do. It appears with all this shooting, he’s now wishing he’d never found me and is trying to get rid of me. If I were you, I’d think twice about going after one of his hired guns.”

“News flash for you. I’m the chief of police. That means I go, no questions asked.” Sylvie radioed for her officers to be aware that the perpetrator was a possible assassin, and to proceed with caution.

But the woman didn’t heed her own advice. She continued to take to the road like a bolt of lightning.

“Your son’s not the only one who races cars, I see.”

“This is the only kind of racing I do now, but there was a day...” She trailed off and said no more.

The vehicle ahead took the exit off the highway, before reaching Norcastle.

Sylvie banged her steering wheel. “He must’ve figured I would set up a blockade in town.” She took the exit, too.

“So we’re going after him with no backup?”

Sylvie glanced his way. “You’re a smart man, Ian Stone. Or should I call you Luke Spencer? You may have dyslexia, but you can read a situation just fine.”

“It’s Ian, and you’re right. This has insanity written all over it.”

THREE

“Preston, this guy’s heading up to Mount Randolph. How fast can you get a team up there? Charney Road’s about to end. After that, snowmobiles will be needed. He’s in an all-terrain Jeep. He’ll get a lot farther than I will.”

“I’m on it, Chief, but I was already en route to the town line. It could be a while before I get to the garage and load up the sleds.”

“Smitty, are you reading this?” Sylvie asked, hoping Officer Ed Smith was on the transmission.

“10-4. I’m less than a mile away from the garage. You’ll have your sleds in fifteen, little miss.”

“Roger that.”

“Boyfriend?” Ian asked when Sylvie pushed her car’s tires to grab the snow. Her gunman’s taillights were long gone, but not his tire tracks.

“Who? Smitty?”

“You seem...close.”

“Smitty’s old enough to be my father...and filled the role for a lot longer than my real one did. Or at least, he used to.”

“Used to? When did he stop?”

“When I applied for the former chief’s position.”

“Not supportive of his little miss?”

“Just not as supportive as he was for Reggie Porter. Reggie had been on the force for thirty years. He was qualified, but...”

“But?”

“But nothing. I took the test and got the majority of the town council’s vote. End of story. They had their reasons for choosing me, and everyone’s just going to have to get used to it. It’s been two years, almost, and I’m a good cop.”

“Something tells me you’re as stoic as one of Virgil’s duty-bound soldiers in his stories.”

“I see you make good use of your audiobooks.”

“For someone dyslexic they’re an answer to prayer.”

“You pray?”

“Everyone prays. Whether they admit it or not, there comes a moment where everyone calls out for help.”

Sylvie had to agree. She remembered her moment like it was yesterday, even though it was fifteen years ago.

“The Jeep’s off to the right, hidden behind those pines. Your lights just reflected off the red taillights.”

“I see it. Good eye.” Sylvie pulled to the left. “Stay down,” she instructed and radioed her location. Using her door as a shield, she crouched low, her gun drawn and held at the ready.

The cold night wind whipped around her and through the empty tree branches.

“Come out with your hands up!” she commanded.

No response.

Sylvie glanced into her cruiser at Ian. Slowly, he shook his head. It was as though he’d read her mind and knew what she was about to do. Again, the man may have trouble with his letters, but that was it.

She made her move and stepped out from behind her door. Ian mumbled his dislike under his breath. Then she heard his boots crunch on the snow. She swung around and pointed back at the car.

He did the same to her.

Seriously? Did he think she was a rookie?

What did she expect? Guys liked the idea of her being a cop for about ten minutes. Just until she had to do her job and go into the danger.

Sylvie turned her back on him and approached the Jeep. She breached the pines and came up on the rear of the vehicle. With one hand, she grabbed her flashlight and shined the beam into the rear window. Through the back driver’s side door, she peered inside.

No signs of life were evident.

“There’re snowmobile tracks out here,” Ian whispered loudly from the other side of the trees. “Whoever he is, he’s long gone.”

“Well, his Jeep won’t be here when he returns. I’ll have it processed for prints before the morning.”

“Get away from the car.”

Sylvie shined the light in the direction of Ian. “Excuse me? You keep forgetting this is what I do. I go in when you can’t. I definitely don’t take orders from you. I may have to protect you with my life, but the oath ends there.”

“Get...away...from...the car!”

Ian’s tone had Sylvie questioning her decision to approach the vehicle in the first place. Did he know something?

Slowly, she stepped back through the pines. His arms were around her so fast, lifting her frame off the ground and across the road. She barely had time to fight back with anything more than a few twists of her body when a flash of light lit the sky above and an explosion rushed at her from behind.

A painful ringing filled her head. It took her a few seconds to realize she was on the ground with Ian over her. His head of hair brushed her neck. Her gun and flashlight were gone to places unknown, her ears pierced with the effects of the blast.

Her lungs emptied in the toss. They burned with a need for air that Ian’s weight didn’t allow for replenishing.

Sylvie banged a fist on his back. “Can’t—” she pushed out in a squeak “—breathe.”

Ian moaned, but didn’t move quickly enough for her. She banged three more times before his head lifted with a dazed look of confusion.

Had he lost consciousness? She couldn’t assess him until she could breathe.

Ian snapped to and rolled off her, allowing air to enter her body. Heat roared at her from the fire across the road, fighting her for the oxygen. She heaved over in spasms.

“Easy. Slow it down. Breathe into your nose, not your mouth.” Ian’s soothing commands and his hand on her back told her he’d returned to her side.

But what about him? He’d taken the brunt of the blast. Was he burned?

Sylvie followed his directions but willed her lungs to fill enough for her to help.

“Let me check you out,” she said on a breathy whisper.

“Just a little singed. The coat’s trashed. I can feel wind on my back, and it actually feels good. I probably won’t need a haircut for a while, either.” He laughed, but she didn’t think she’d heard such nervousness in him before.

“Just humor me and turn around.”

“Fine, but I may not be decent.” More nervousness threaded through his voice. He was scared.

But then so was she.

“The trees took the brunt.”

Sylvie glanced at the flaming pine trees with the burning car behind them. The trees had saved their lives.

But Ian had saved hers by telling her to get away from the car in the first place.

“How did you know?” Her voice cracked.

She touched his obliterated jacket pieces, pulling them away from his body. His shirt stuck to him. He grunted when she lifted it.

“You’re burned, but I don’t think anything more than second degree in a couple spots. It’ll feel like a bad sunburn.”

“Thanks, Doc.” Ian rolled and lay in the snow, gritting his teeth against the cold, but it seemed welcoming at the same time.

“You still haven’t told me how you knew.”

“Just a feeling of impending doom. I’m attuned to stuff like that.”

“From experience?”

“You could say that. You face it enough times and you start to live on the balls of your feet, ready to spring into action or retreat, whatever comes first. Besides, it looked like a setup. Like I was supposed to find that car. Me. Not you. Regardless of your oath and duty you didn’t sign up for this.” He lifted up from the snow and leaned in close. “Leave me here. Go home to your son. I would never forgive myself if he lost you because of me.”

“Because you’re not worth me doing my job?”

Cruisers’ lights and sirens blared off in the distance as they stared at each other.

“You shouldn’t have come looking for me at my apartment.”

“And find you washed up on the riverbank instead? I don’t think so. Someone wants you six feet under, Mr. Stone. They’re going to have to go through me first.”

“You see the flames, right? The Spencers are your friends but with me around they won’t think twice about leaving your son an orphan.”

Cars rushed in and squeaked to a stop around them. As glad as she was to have their help, they could use this scene against her, especially if Preston was right in his thinking and somebody wanted her off the job. “Can you not tell them I approached the vehicle alone?”

Ian eyed her quizzically. “Aren’t you the chief?”

“Yes, but I still have two more months on my probationary period and someone on the force may be looking for any slipup to stack against me. Please.”

“Only if I get a sled.”

“No way. You’re going into protective custody. I can’t allow you to go up the mountain with us.”

“And I can’t allow you to put yourself in danger for me.”

“It’s my job, Ian.”

“Not for long if I tell them you approached the car without backup.”

“That’s blackmail. I can arrest you, you know.”

Ian shrugged. “I’m always ready to spring into action, whatever that might be. In this case it will be your choice how this all goes down. So, what’s your decision, Chief? Do I get a sled or do your weekends open up?”

“You could be killed,” she said quietly.

“And so could you. Don’t make me responsible for leaving your son alone in this world. I have to look myself in the mirror every day. You should know about mirrors more than anyone. You’ve made sacrifices to give Jaxon a good life.”

His reference to her circumstances as a pregnant teen silenced her. He’d obviously done the math. However, she didn’t feel his judgment like so many others. Just his understanding. She did what she had to do to look herself in the mirror every day. She couldn’t take that from Ian.

“Chief!” Smitty fell to his knees beside her. His wisps of balding hair fell in his face. “Are you hurt?”

“No. I’m fine. Ian has lost his coat. Did you bring the winter gear? He’ll need a set.”

“A full set? Is he going up the mountain?” Smitty glanced Ian’s way in confusion. Caution took over. “Who are you?”

“He says he’s Lu—”

“I’m Ian Stone.” Ian glared at Sylvie as he cut her off. “Just call me Ian, and everyone stays safe.”

Sylvie realized the ramifications of having this knowledge. If someone was trying to kill Ian before Roni and Wade learned he was alive, they could come after her, too.

Protecting Ian was one thing, but as a single mother, making herself a target was not a road she could afford to go down.

* * *

“Ian’s going up because he thinks he can ID the shooter,” Sylvie told her men.

Ian nodded at her decision to allow him to stick by her. He really had no intention of getting her fired if she didn’t comply, but he did intend to keep her alive. And to do that, he couldn’t stay behind.

Sylvie jumped to her feet with rapid orders spilling from her lips. Her team responded on her command. When no one squabbled over her decision, Ian could tell they respected her as their leader.

One half of the team stayed to process the scene and wait for the fire department, while the other prepped the sleds and geared up.

As Ian pulled on his second glove and stamped his feet in the too-tight boots given to him, Sylvie pushed a helmet at his chest.

“Don’t make me regret this, Ian. And make sure you stay alive.” She climbed on her sled. “We ride!” Three of her officers fell in behind her. Ian straddled his sled and started the engine. He revved the gas by turning the handle and after getting acquainted with his machine, saluted Sylvie to let her know he was good to go.

She took off at a breakneck speed. She’d hinted at racing cars as a retired pastime, but obviously snowmobiling hadn’t been given up. Ian had trouble keeping up with her and her team. He had one officer behind him, pressing in on his tail. The guy didn’t like lagging behind, judging by the way he pressed close. Ian gave his sled more gas and leaned in.

Still the officer hedged in.

The officers’ helmets had radios installed in them so they could talk with each other, but no one had given him one. Yelling at the guy to back off did nothing. Ian couldn’t even hear himself over the engines.

But he could feel the officer practically breathing down his neck. Ian’s sled was already pushed to the max. What more did the guy want? Any faster and Ian would be on top of the officer in front of him. He pushed on, but finally couldn’t take it.

Ian flashed his headlight to get someone’s attention.

Only not one person ahead or behind responded with a word or hand signal. Not even a brake light to show they’d slowed down.

Was it a scare tactic done by the police? Was Sylvie in on this?

Ian’s snowmobile jerked and skidded from an impact from behind. He’d been hit. He righted his machine, but knew the officer had struck him with his sled. This just went from annoying to...calculated.

But Sylvie couldn’t be involved. Her oath of duty to serve and protect drove her every decision. The cop behind him was working alone...or perhaps was working for someone else.

The Spencers.

Their wealthy reach exceeded the local PD. They must have people bought and paid for in every back pocket of their designer jeans.

Ian craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the guy so determined to push him off course.

For what?

Was the shooter waiting for him nearby? Maybe this officer just had to roll Ian’s sled off the path and let the killer finish what he was sent here to do.

Get rid of Luke Spencer.

Ian jammed the back of his sled out in a fishtail to push his pursuer off. He stood to his feet on the sled and ramped up the engine to catch up with the officers in the lead. His engine screamed at the assault. He cranked the handle harder, popping the front end of the sled up and back down with a thud.

His teeth jarred with the impact, then clenched as the machine blasted up the mountain. A quick glance over his shoulder and he found his tail gone. Ian drove on and quickly caught up with the other four officers.

The number stumped him. There had been three officers and the chief when they set out, and still there were three officers and the chief.

Then who had been trying to run him off the path?

Ian pushed on to reach the group. Something told him the guy they were pursuing had been behind him the whole time.

The assassin had made the tracks for them to follow, then circled back around to nab his assignment. But where were the tracks leading the police?

Trap. The word lodged in Ian’s throat. He shouted it to no avail. They would never hear his warning before whatever awaited them made its appearance. With no radio, all he could do was race headfirst with them into a trap that Sylvie would fall into before anyone else.

Ian had to stop her. She was experienced, but in the dark mountain night, with only the lights on their sleds, her vision was limited to a few feet. Just enough to keep an eye on the tracks leading them to...where?

A dead end?

Sweat poured down Ian’s back into his suit. His burns were nothing compared to the painful fear gripping his lungs in a vise. Sylvie didn’t deserve this. He was the one who’d brought this danger to her town. He was the one they wanted, and they didn’t mind killing a few cops to achieve their goal.

It wouldn’t even look like murder. It would look like a horrible snowmobile accident that took the lives of four brave officers in hot pursuit. This guy was a skilled mastermind killer.

Ian pushed on, but realized he would need to leave the path and cut them off ahead. It would be the only way to stop them.

Ian peered into the darkness for an alternate path. When one off to his left came into view, he took it and brought his sled up and around a steep pass. At a point he had to stand and lean forward to prevent his sled from falling backward. Overturning it now would be catastrophic.

Finally, his path rejoined the other one, but Sylvie had already flown by.

Ian was able to pull out and cut the officers off.

Two collided at the shock of seeing him, not able to brake fast enough. The third officer pulled off to the side.

Ian whipped off his helmet. “It’s a trap! The guy tried to take me out down the mountain. One of you, radio to stop her.”

“Her radio’s not working!” the one who had pulled off shouted. “We’ve been trying to get ahold of her.”

Ian didn’t wait for any instructions. He had to get Sylvie. He pushed his sled back into Drive and screamed it up the mountain.

Quickly, she came into view...but so did the end of the road. Ian’s light took in all that surrounded her from this far back. But she would only see what was directly in front of her. What she was meant to see.

The tracks.

Tracks that were about to come to an end without warning—straight off the side of the mountain.

FOUR

Sylvie cranked her throttle to give her engine the gas it needed to continue its steep ascent. She tried her radio again.

No response. She risked a glance over her shoulder to catch her team’s headlights. At least one kept up.

She slowed to allow the rest to do so and quickly the one sled pulled up alongside her. A gloved hand reached over and grabbed her hand.

“What are you doing?” she yelled inside her helmet. She didn’t expect an answer. But suddenly the man pulled her hard and she lost her grip on the snowmobile. His assault didn’t let up and before she could fight back, she found herself draped over his sled and veering in another direction.

The ride came to an abrupt end and Sylvie pushed off into the three-foot-deep snow, landing on her back.

The driver’s hand lifted her up. Sylvie ripped away from him to go after her sled.

Only she couldn’t see it. She also couldn’t hear it.

She tore off her helmet and looked back at the man who’d removed her from her ride. She stepped up to his sled and hit the red kill switch. The machine shut down instantly. “Take the helmet off.”

He did as he was told.

Ian’s face appeared beneath the great unveiling.

“I should have left you behind,” Sylvie said.

“Because I saved your life again?”

“How did you save my life?”

“Do you see your sled around? No, you don’t. That’s because it was a trap. You were following tracks that led you off the side of the mountain.”

Sylvie whipped around to search the darkness for her snowmobile. Even if it had crashed and the headlight had gone out she would have seen evidence of it around. A dark abyss less than ten feet away could only be what swallowed it, and it would have taken her right along with it if...

“We weren’t the ones doing the chasing,” Ian said. “He tried to get me away from the pack a little ways back there.”

She pivoted back. “While sending the cops to their deaths?”

“Looks that way. You should get as far away from me as you can before it’s too late for you and your men. Go now. Leave me here. I beg of you.”

“Be serious. I’m not leaving you up here. You’d die before morning, whether killed by this guy or the elements.” Sylvie needed to do what their enemy wouldn’t expect. Did he know these mountains? If she went left, she would pick up the McKeeny Pass and could cut down into inhabited land. There was also an emergency supply cabin at the beginning of the pass. But if she started on her way, it would be for the duration.

“You up for a ride?”

“I don’t think this is a good time for an adventure.”

“It’s not a good time to die, either. I’m thinking our guy will be expecting us to double back. He’ll be waiting to spring another trap for you. Christmas is two days away. I mean to be sitting around a tree sipping eggnog, and I’d like to do that without all the paperwork your death would heap on my desk. I’d also like to be alive to pick my son up from the hospital in the morning.”

“So what’s your plan?”

“I know another way down. We have to go across the McKeeny Pass. The ridge runs along for a few miles, then it descends to safety. You can trust me. I’ve driven these trails many times, but there’s a chance we’ll run out of gas and will need to walk the rest of the way. Are you too hurt for that?”

“I’m fine. Hop on.”

“Wait, I need to tell my men.”

As if on cue, the three of them cleared the slope. “Chief? Are you all right?”

“Karl!” Sylvie approached them. “We’re not going down the way we came up. It’s too risky for Ian. I’m taking him across the pass. Are you guys able to get back down?”

“We lost a sled, but we’ll double up.”

“Us too. I need you off this mountain as fast as possible. We’re dealing with a psychopath who doesn’t care if he takes you out in the process.”

“Should we call Reggie?”

The name Reggie froze Sylvie’s chest faster than the freezing temperature “No. There’s no need to call him in. Let him enjoy his retirement.”

“But—”

“No buts. Do not, I repeat, do not call Reginald Porter. We will catch this guy on our own. Now go.”

Her men followed her orders, but she could tell they were hoping to call in the man who had been next in line for the chief position. She still had a lot to prove to her team. Sylvie hoped catching this guy and keeping Ian safe would be what it took to earn her rightful place as chief in their eyes. But even if it didn’t, it wouldn’t change the fact that she was still in charge.

* * *

Ian held on to Sylvie’s waist as she pushed the snowmobile through deep snow. He kept an eye out behind him every few seconds to be sure they didn’t have unwanted company. Two hours of riding at a slow twenty miles an hour, Ian worried they weren’t putting enough distance between them and his would-be assassin. The guy knew how to use these treacherous drops to his advantage. Ian peered over the side of the ridge to his right. One push and they would be bouncing over jagged rocks all the way down. In addition to speed, he questioned Sylvie’s choice of path.

The snowmobile slowed even more until it drifted to an idling stop. Sylvie hopped off and indicated a small cabin down the hill about a hundred feet. The snowdrifts covered the door to about a foot from the top.

Sylvie’s short legs disappeared in the heavy snow as she made tracks to the building. She pushed through, breaking trail with all her strength.

Ian joined her and reached the door to help her scoop the drifts away in a flying flurry. The door opened inward with ease and a cold woodstove in the center of the one-room cabin greeted them.

Sylvie lifted the visor of her helmet. The fact that she didn’t remove it completely told him this was a quick stop. He lifted his own as she went to a cabinet in search of something.

“Do you use this place a lot?”

“No, but I know it’s stocked with things we might need to keep going.” She lifted two pairs of snowshoes from a rack.

“We’re hoofing it from here?”

“This is heavy snow and not compacted down. It’s causing the sled to use more gas than normal to get us through. I almost thought we wouldn’t make it here at all.”

“There’s no gas here?”

She slammed a cabinet door then opened another. “Not that I can find. I’ll make a note to have it stocked.” Sylvie looped ropes over her shoulder. “When I was younger the McKeeny Pass was a place I would come to, to silence the world.”

“Silence? Those sleds are the loudest things I’ve ever heard, and I work in construction.”

She moved on to a drawer. “I guess the motor never bothered me, but I know there are people who hate it. Same thing with the racetrack.”

“And yet that’s not a part of your life anymore.”

“Things change. Times change. Responsibilities change.”

“Right, and your responsibilities dictate your days now, including protecting me. It doesn’t matter how much you hate them.”

“Hate is an emotion, and in this job there’s no room for emotions. I make the best decisions I can with what is given to me.”

“I’ve got news for you. I haven’t been given to you, so you don’t need to view me as one of your responsibilities to handle.”

The whiny pine of a snowmobile drifted from the east.

“You’re wrong. You’re in my jurisdiction. I am responsible for what happens to you.” She pushed the snowshoes into his arms. “Now let’s move. That sled is getting closer.”

Sylvie whipped her right-hand glove off and retrieved her gun from her holster. The .45 Glock consumed her small hand as she readied it to shoot. He closed the door as she led the way back to the sled. He dropped the snowshoes into the storage under the seat and waited for her to climb on.

“You’re driving. I’m riding shotgun. Just follow the pass until it ends. If we make it that far, we’ll stop and I’ll give you directions from there. Pray that we do.” With that she dropped her visor and communication ended.

Ian climbed on and started the engine. The gas gauge indicated less than a quarter tank. He closed his eyes and said a prayer to the only Father he’d ever had. The only Father who cared about him and promised blessings beyond Ian’s imagination. Even when Ian didn’t deserve them.

Ian hit the gas and moved across the pass as fast as the machine could get through the treacherous level of snow. He felt Sylvie grab hold of his waist with one hand and felt where she held her gun tucked against his back. But that meant her glove was still off. Her hand had to be freezing with the frigid cold and no covering, even held protectively between them. Would she be able to pull the trigger?

He pushed on so she wouldn’t have to.

The only consolation was the assassin would be having just as much trouble getting through the elements as them.

The sled’s high beam flickered and dimmed. The motor strained. The end of the road neared for them whether the pass came to an end or not.

Out of the corner of Ian’s left eye, he saw movement come at them. His pursuer had found a faster way up here to cut them off. Ian yanked the sled to his left to cut in front of the other rider.

He gave the sled the last surge of gas to power them ahead. The motor screamed and the assassin’s headlight came up on the right side. One shove over and Ian might be able to end this right now. But that risked sending them over the edge right along with him. Still, Ian had to lose the guy, but maybe breaking away wasn’t the answer.

He let off the gas and pressed the brake controls, not enough to stop completely, but to slow down enough that the two sleds rode side by side. The two drivers looked at each other, their visors hiding their identities. Ian reached his right hand out as Sylvie’s gun appeared over his shoulder aimed at the other rider. The hitman reached for the gun as Ian reached for the guy’s kill switch.

The round red button that Sylvie had used on his own sled before depressed easily and shut down the machine, lights and all, in an instant. In the same moment, Ian kicked his foot out and sent the sled into a flip. The driver went flying over his handle controls and landed in the snow ahead of them.

Ian’s machine puttered by him as the guy reached for them. Please God, just a little farther to give us some space. Ian managed to squeeze out enough gas for another few hundred feet. He moved the vehicle down to the left behind some trees and he and Sylvie made fast work strapping on their snowshoes.

They lifted their visors to talk. No need to whisper since the assassin’s motor was back in full swing and would be coming up on them real soon.

“Do you know where we are?”

“Yes, but we have to keep moving. There’s a home nearby.”

“Someone lives up here on this mountain?”

Sylvie didn’t reply and Ian took that as a sign to keep moving. They hoofed it for what could only be another mile. The sound of the motor ceased, which meant the guy either gave up his chase or was following on foot. Snow fell down on them, first a few light spattering flakes, but quickly Ian’s visor required swipe after swipe. His fingers numbed quickly even in his gloves. A look to his left and he saw Sylvie still held the gun, her hand exposed. He reached for the gun and had to pry it from her hand. Not because she fought him, but because it had frozen to her skin. He took his own glove off and pushed her small hand into it. His would be warmer than the one in her pocket.

Ian pushed up her visor and witnessed pain on her face. She fought it with her every breath and averted her gaze to his right. A glance that way and he saw a rustling in some snow-covered shrubs.

A bear, perhaps? Great. If the killer and the snowstorm weren’t enough, now they would have a preying animal on their heels.

Ian lifted the gun in his hand and took aim at a creature barreling at them full force. The animal bounced up and out of the snow, flying through a blinding flurry of whiteness. The rapidly falling snow made it impossible to tell what kind of animal had set their sights on them.

Ian could do only one thing.

As he pressed the trigger to unload the bullet, Sylvie steamrolled herself directly at him, sending them both sinking into the snow.

Ian quickly rolled over to protect her from the approaching threat. Figures the woman would want to protect the animal. “Do your responsibilities extend to protecting the creatures in your jurisdiction, too?”

The animal landed hard on Ian’s back, putting its whole weight on him and not giving an inch.

Sylvie glanced over Ian’s shoulder, her eyes wide.

“Is it a bear?” Ian asked low and controlled. Sweat beaded up on his forehead.

A giggle erupted from Sylvie, and Ian realized it was the first time he’d heard her laugh. It was the first lightheartedness he’d seen her express. Never would he think it would come out in a time of danger.

“Well, what is it?” he demanded.

She reached a hand up and lifted his visor. “It’s Promise.” Her lips curled with mischief.

“Promise? Promise what? Now’s not the time to be making deals, Sylvie. Just tell me what kind of animal is on my back. Is it a mountain lion?”

“She just told you,” a deep male voice spoke from above them. He sounded mad and lethal. Had his killer caught up to them? “Promise is my service dog, and you nearly killed her. That doesn’t make us friends, just so you know.”

Ian squinted into Sylvie’s almond-shaped eyes. He knew them to be green, but without light all he could see was the glistening tears of laughter in them. “What’s so funny?”

“Ian, meet Wade Spencer.” She lifted her head and chinked her helmet against his. She moved her lips in a bare whisper. “Your brother.”

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