The Christmas Target

“It’s okay.” Chance crouched beside her, his cool palm on the back of her neck, his coat dropping around her shoulders. She felt him tense, knew he’d realized that she had another head wound. Double the potential for severe injury, and he’d be calculating the risk to her versus the risk of leaving the creek while Beatrice was still wandering around in the snow.

If they went back to the house, Beatrice would probably die before anyone found her.

The temperature was below freezing, the snow falling faster and heavier. And Beatrice’s slipper had been in the creek. Which meant she’d been in the creek, too.

“I want you to wait here,” Chance said quietly. “I’ve already texted our coordinates to Boone and Simon. They’ll be here soon. One of them will wait with you until the medics get here.”

Not a question.

Not a suggestion.

He really thought that she was going to wait at the edge of the creek while Beatrice wandered through the snowy forest.

She struggled to her feet, following him as he stepped across the burbling water. He didn’t tell her to go back. He didn’t waste time or energy arguing with her. It was one of the things she’d always liked about Chance—he didn’t spend time fighting battles when he had wars to win.

“There’s a print there.” His light settled on an impression in the muddy bank. “Let’s see how many more we can find.”

He started walking parallel to the creek, and she followed, her heart beating hollowly in her ears, her legs weak, her body still numb.

Voices carried through the woods, men and women calling out to one another. A search party forming, but Stella could only think about taking one step after another, following the tracks that Chance’s light kept finding. Bare feet pressed into the muddy earth. Bare feet in below-freezing temperatures.

Stella was shivering uncontrollably, and she had Chance’s coat. Beatrice probably had nothing but her cotton nightgown and the gauzy robe she put on each morning when she got out of bed.

She tasted salt on her lips and realized hot tears were mixing with icy snow. She never cried around other people. Ever. She was crying now, because she’d already lost her grandfather, and she wasn’t sure she could bear losing her grandmother, too.

She swiped the tears away, tried to clear the fog from her mind at the same time. She had to think. She had to imagine being in Beatrice’s shoes, walking outside, making her way to the creek. Had someone been with her? Maybe the person who’d attacked Stella?

Or had she gone off by herself? Maybe reliving some long-ago day? A trip to the creek with Henry, a picnic in the moonlight? Had some memory sent her wandering?

Had she—

“There!” Chance shouted, the word sending adrenaline coursing through Stella again.

He sprinted forward, and she followed, tripping over roots and rocks, trying desperately to see what he was seeing.

There! At the edge of the creek! White against the dark ground and glistening water. Gauzy fabric, a thin pale leg peeking out from it.

“Nana!” Stella sprinted forward, grabbing her grandmother’s hand as Chance lifted her lifeless body from the water.

* * *

They’d always been a good team.

Always.

Worst-case scenario, best-case, didn’t matter. Chance and Stella knew how to move in sync. He wasn’t sure that was going to save Beatrice. Stella’s grandmother was as limp as a rag doll, her skin icy cold. No respiration. Pulse—thready and weak.

“She’s not breathing,” he said, laying Beatrice on flat ground and checking her airway.

“Nana?” Stella said, giving her grandmother’s shoulder a gentle shake. “Can you hear me?”

Beatrice remained silent, her face bone-white.

“Let Boone know where we are so the medics can find us more quickly. She needs help now. Not ten minutes from now.” Stella wrapped Beatrice in his coat and began CPR. No chest compressions. Just rescue breaths that made Beatrice’s chest rise and fall.

He made the call quickly, his gaze on the trees that edged close to the creek. The morning had gone silent, nothing moving in the shadowy pre-dawn light. It wasn’t a safe stillness. It wasn’t a good silence. Something was off—the air subtly charged, the shadows seeming to shift and undulate. He pulled his Glock from the holster, stepping away from Stella and her grandmother. Behind him, voices drifted through the trees—the medics moving toward the creek as he moved away from it.

Stella didn’t ask him where he was going or what he was doing. She was either so focused on her grandmother she hadn’t noticed or she sensed what he did—someone watching.

The woods had lightened imperceptibly, black trees now brown-gray, white snow flecked with green pine needles and fallen leaves.

He used his penlight anyway, training it into the heart of the forest, flicking it across thick tree trunks and winter-brown bushes. He didn’t want to go too far. Even with help close at hand, he was worried about leaving Stella and her grandmother. Both were in bad shape. Stella, at her best, could take down almost any well-trained fighter. But she wasn’t at her best. Not even close.

He reached the top of a shallow embankment, the snow thicker there, the trees sparser. His light bounced across a fallen log, illuminating a hint of bright pink that peeked out from behind it.

The other slipper. He didn’t move closer. He’d spent years in Afghanistan and Iraq, working as part of one of the top ranger teams in the army. He didn’t talk about those days, but he’d lived them. They’d been the best preparation in the world for the kind of work he did with HEART.

Always cautious.

Always meticulous.

Always weighing risk versus benefit.

Until there was nothing to do but act, and then he’d do whatever was necessary to get out alive with his comrades.

The slipper?

It looked like one of the dozens of booby traps he’d seen just sitting out in the open, waiting for someone to pick it up. He flashed the light to the left and right of it, searching for wires or leads. Nothing. Not that he’d really expected there to be anything. Booby traps didn’t happen all that often in the good old USA, but he was paranoid, and he believed what Stella had said. Someone’s out here.

Her words had explained the gash on her temple, the blood that stained the collar of her pajama top and matted her dark red hair. She needed the medics almost as badly as her grandmother did. Maybe just as badly. He’d seen people die of head injuries like hers. He knew how dangerous they could be. If she’d been a different kind of person, he’d have carried her back to her grandmother’s house and made sure she was in an ambulance heading for the hospital, but Stella knew her own mind, she made her own decisions. He’d have done the same if he were in her position—insist on being part of the search. So, he’d let her call the shots.

But he wasn’t going to let her get hurt again.

Someone’s out here.

Yeah. She was definitely right about that.

He crouched near the slipper, his light trained on the ground beyond it. He studied the layer of pine needles and dead leaves, found what he thought were depressions in the surface. He followed the trail with his light, surprised to see what looked like a path through the trees. Not a deer trail this time. It looked man-made, the ground clear of shrubs and undergrowth.

Stella’s attacker had gone that way. He was certain of that. He was also certain that whoever it was wouldn’t be returning. Not now. Too many people crisscrossing the woods, too many lights flashing above the creek. Only a fool would risk capture by sticking around.

He saved the coordinates of the trail and holstered his Glock. He’d pass the information on to the team, let them figure out where the path led. Once he made sure Stella and Beatrice were safe, he’d return. By that time, local law enforcement would have already scoured the area, but he’d take a look anyway. It was what he did. Double-check. Look where others might not. Sometimes, a second or third or fourth pair of eyes would uncover something that no one else had.

If the police came up empty, Chance was going to make sure he didn’t. Right now, he had a lot more questions than answers, and he didn’t like it. Had this been a random act? An opportunistic crime? Or had it been planned?

Stella had worked a lot of missions. She’d made a lot of friends, and she’d made a few enemies. It was possible one of them had followed her to Boonsboro.

He frowned, turning back toward the creek.