Thin Ice (33 page)

“Thanks.”

But as he slipped away and began to descend toward the pond, Lance knew they'd need a whole lot more than luck to pull off this operation without bloodshed.

No one was here except him and Christy. She hadn't stirred—nor had anyone else since he'd thrown the box of bullets into the woods.

He just had a case of nerves.

Neven fingered his pistol and exhaled. Being a little jittery was understandable in the final stage of a brilliant plan that had accomplished exactly what he'd intended without creating so much as a blip on the radar of law enforcement. It was a perfect example of his organization and planning skills—and a perfect example of why he should have been so much more than a maintenance man. He was management material.

Too bad he couldn't put this whole operation on a résumé. It would certainly be impressive.

Smirking at the thought of listing such an item under the heading of accomplishments, he edged toward the ladder and took one last look at Christy from his elevated perch. Still motionless. Too bad. He wouldn't mind watching her stagger to her feet and wobble through another few spins and jumps.

On the plus side, though, the temperature was dropping fast—and an early end to the show would allow him to get to the best part of the evening sooner.

The part where he ended the life of the woman who'd ruined his.

Adrenaline surging, he started to lower his legs to the ladder.

Suddenly, the night went pitch black.

What the . . . ?

He scrambled back into the blind, wedged himself in a corner, and peered through a crack. The generator had plenty of fuel. There should have been more than . . .

A movement on the ice caught his eye, and he homed in on it. A shadow on the surface was scooting toward the trees on the side of the pond.

Christy!

She was trying to get away!

Neven's mouth hardened as a surge of anger swept over him. No way.

He lifted his gun, steadied his arm, and took aim.

C
hristy was fighting him.

Hard.

She punched. She kicked. She scratched.

His cheek began to smart as her fingernails raked across it.

Yes!

Her fall had been a fake, just as he'd suspected. She wasn't hurt.

“Christy—it's Lance.” He grappled with her flailing arms, easily restraining her as he slid them both toward the cover of the cedar trees. The darkness would only give them an advantage until Terzic's eyes adjusted or he flashed a light at them. They had a few seconds, at best. “Work with me.”

She froze. Emitted a shuddering sob. Then she began pushing with her skate blades, propelling them even faster across the ice.

Once at the edge, he swept her into his arms, rose to a crouch, and dove into the small cluster of cedar trees. After setting her on the ground, he pulled out his Glock. “Are you hurt?” He scanned the perimeter of the lake as he whispered the question, wanting to cradle her in his arms and check for himself but doing instead what duty required.

“N-no.”

“Stay quiet.”

She was shaking—badly—as she huddled beside him, and though she didn't say a word, the chattering of her teeth echoed in the silent woods. They needed to fix that.

He dug for his wallet. If she clenched her teeth around . . .

The chattering stopped.

He flicked her a quick glance.

She'd stuck her glove-encased finger between her teeth.

What a trooper.

Again resisting the impulse to touch her, he went back to scrutinizing the perimeter. That's what a pro did.

But once this was over and FBI Special Agent McGregor was off duty, Lance intended to wrap her in his arms and hold on tight.

For a very long time.

As Christy disappeared into the small cluster of cedar trees at the edge of the pond, Neven lowered his gun.

Better not to shoot. Despite the silencer, it would give away his position. Besides, it didn't matter that she'd managed to get off the ice. In her injured state, wearing skates, how far could she run? He could easily catch up to her.

The real problem was the person who'd turned off the generator. Whoever that was could be watching for him to make a move. He couldn't show himself until . . .

“Mr. Terzic, FBI. We know you're in the deer blind. Come down and raise your hands above your head. You're surrounded by agents. Let's talk about this so no one gets hurt.”

FBI?!

No!

Impossible!

No one knew about his plans. No one!

“Mr. Terzic, come down now. Agent Bradley, are you in position?”

“Yes.” A second voice, off to the right.

A wave of panic, of suffocating helplessness, crashed over him, the same way it had the day his brother had been killed in the street and his mother had been dragged off by soldiers. Even if he'd been willing to risk his own neck, there hadn't been anything he could have done to help them. The soldiers had been in control in that faraway place.

But he was supposed to be in control here.

Except his biggest bargaining chip had just disappeared into the undergrowth.

He sucked in a harsh breath as the nauseating reality crashed over him.

Giving himself up, however, was not an option. They'd put him behind bars like some animal. Other people would be in control. They'd tell him what to do every day for the rest of his life. He'd never again have power or . . .

“This is your last chance, Mr. Terzic. Agent Perez, are you in position?”

“Yes.”

Another new voice, this one from behind him.

He swung around. Stared at the blank wall at the back of the blind.

Last chance? No way. He knew these woods. They didn't. If he could elude them, he'd disappear, start over like he had the day Neven Terzic had died and Nathan Turner had been born. He was good at starting over. Good at taking control.

And he could regain control of this situation.

Jaw set, he grasped his pistol, scooted over to the ladder, and plunged into the underbrush at the base of the blind. The agents wouldn't be this close. They didn't know what kind of weapons
he had, and they wouldn't risk their lives by closing in too fast. They might have night vision equipment, but the woods were dense. It would be hard for them to get a decent shot at him. The odds were in his favor as long as he kept weaving around the trees and ducking and bobbing and . . .

All at once, his foot plunged into a hole and he pitched forward, his gun flying into the darkness as he went down hard. The air whooshed out of his lungs.

As he struggled to breathe, the rustle of dead leaves told him he wasn't alone even before a steel-hard voice spoke.

“It's over, Terzic. Make one move, I won't hesitate to pull this trigger.”

The man's cold, deadly tone told him the threat wasn't idle.

An instant later, bright lights were aimed into his eyes, blinding him.

“Face down on the ground. Arms behind you, palms up. Now!”

There were at least four agents on hand . . . and all of them would have weapons. Resisting would be suicide—and he wasn't about to take the cowardly way out, like the old woman had.

So for now he'd have to go along with them. But lots of people broke out of jail. He could be one of them. He knew how to bide his time and plan. This wasn't the end—no matter what they thought. He was too smart for that.

Slowly he complied with the order.

A moment later his wrists were cuffed and he was pulled to his feet.

Squinting in the light, he looked around. Several men in assault gear were watching him—including the one who was helping Christy slide her arms into a jacket. As the guy bent and lifted her into his arms, he peered at the man's face.

It was the guy she'd been hanging around with these past few weeks.

So the boyfriend was a cop after all. No, worse than a cop. An FBI agent.

Anger began to churn in his gut. She'd defied him from the beginning. Ignored his directives and gone to the authorities after that first letter. She'd betrayed him just as she had all those years ago in high school.

But still . . . he'd covered his tracks. They shouldn't have been able to figure out he was the one behind the letters—or the fire at her sister's house.

“Let's get out of here. You want to alert the paramedics?” The tall guy holding Christy spoke to another agent.

“Already done. They're waiting at the turnaround.”

Someone urged him forward from behind. “Start walking.”

“Wait!” Neven held his ground, trying to quash the new surge of panic that was short-circuiting his brain. “Who told you about . . . how did you know about this?”

The agent holding Christy tossed the response over his shoulder as he walked away. “Your grandmother sent a letter.”

What?

The helpless, meek old woman had turned in her own flesh and blood?

Her
grandson
?

She might have abandoned him once before, but that hadn't been intentional. This was worse. Much worse.

This was a betrayal.

More ruthless, even, than Christy's.

“Move.”

Someone prodded him from behind again, and he stumbled forward, rage scouring his stomach as he silently cursed her.

It was a good thing Mevlida Terzic was already dead.

Because if she wasn't, he'd kill her.

Christy snuggled deeper into the blessed warmth. Shifted her position slightly to ease the tingle in her legs and the lingering ache in her stomach. Sighed, suspended somewhere between sleep and wakefulness.

Mmm.

It was so safe and peaceful and perfect here. She could stay like this forever . . .

“Morning, sleepyhead.”

As the husky masculine voice spoke close to her ear, her eyelids flew open and she blinked, trying to orient herself.

She was on her couch. Pale light was peeking in at the edges of her blinds. Flames were flickering in her fireplace. And she was cuddled up next to Lance . . . whose weary eyes and stubbled chin told her he'd been beside her, keeping vigil while she slept, since they'd arrived home from the ER at three in the morning.

She willed the last vestiges of sleep to disperse and tried to pry herself away from his side.

“Uh-uh.” He held fast. “I've been waiting all night to do this. My patience is gone.”

Then, without giving her a chance to anticipate or prepare or get nervous, he dipped his head and gave her a kiss that was tender, careful, and restrained . . . but also simmering with a barely leashed passion, a promise of things to come, that set her heart racing.

When at last he drew back, she let out a slow, unsteady breath. “That was some first kiss.”

“And way overdue.” He cleared the hoarseness from his throat. “I lied a minute ago. I've been waiting much longer than all night to do that. And there'll be a lot more of those once you're back to normal. How are you feeling?”

“Swept off my feet?” She smiled up at him.

“Nice to hear. But I was referring to your physical condition.”
His own smile faded as he searched her face. “I wish you'd spent a few more hours in the hospital. You're too pale.”

“I'm fine, Lance. A bad chill that didn't qualify even as mild hypothermia, a few assorted bruises, and a touch of frostbite. The hot chocolate you fixed after we got back was much more effective than another warmed IV. Not to mention the body heat you provided.” She snuggled closer. “You can warm me up anytime.”

He tipped his head. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Maybe. That's allowed now that the case is over, isn't it?”

“Allowed—and encouraged.” A yawn snuck up on him. “Sorry.”

The man's dead on
his feet, Christy. Send him home.

She squelched her selfish impulses—the ones clamoring for her to urge him to stay. “Don't apologize. You need to get some sleep.”

“I have to admit, a few hours of shut-eye would be welcome. Will you be okay here by yourself?”

“Yes. I plan to spend a large part of the day planted in front of the fire. Staying warm is my top priority—along with giving thanks that this whole nightmare is over.” She crimped the afghan in her fingers and released a shaky breath. “I still can't believe how this played out. That Neven was behind it. I tried so hard to be nice to him in high school, and he repaid me by destroying my family?” A shudder rippled through her.

Lance twined his fingers with hers, the warmth of his touch taking the edge off her soul-deep chill. “Psychopaths aren't wired to react like rational, compassionate human beings, Christy. But he won't have a chance to hurt anyone else ever again.” He stroked one finger along the edge of the bandage slanted across her temple. “Speaking of hurting, this is nasty. I can't believe you gouged out a chunk of skin with your fingernails on purpose. It was almost deep enough to need stitches.”

She lifted one shoulder. “I thought blood would make the ruse more realistic. I wanted Neven to believe I was really injured so he'd come out on the ice.”

“I can't speak for him, but it freaked
me
out.”

“I'm sorry for that. And for this.” She laid a hand next to the scratch she'd inflicted on his cheek.

He covered her fingers with his. “Don't be. Having you go ballistic was the answer to a prayer. I knew then you'd faked the fall.” He yawned again, his expression rueful. “I must be getting soft—or old. I used to be able to go a lot longer than this without getting tired.”

“Lance McGregor. Soft. Old.” She pretended to ponder that. “Nope. Not computing. But high-stakes drama can be draining, especially if there's emotional involvement.”

“Guilty on that score—and not ashamed to admit it. Shall I demonstrate the extent of my involvement?” He waggled his eyebrows.

She chuckled. “Later. Right now, you need to sleep. I'll walk you to the door.” She stood and held out her hand.