The Christmas Target by Shirlee McCoy

Author:Shirlee McCoy
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2016-11-08T05:00:00+00:00

NINE

“Do you know what’s on the other side of the house?” Chance asked, his voice razor-sharp. He was calculating risk, formulating a plan, doing everything he’d done hundreds of times before.

Stella was doing the same.

It was what they’d been trained for, and she didn’t feel panic as much as she felt adrenaline flooding through her, clearing the last cobwebs from her concussed brain.

“A field. Probably not enough coverage, though,” she responded, her gaze on the truck. The driver had skidded to a stop and turned around, searching for the entrance to the driveway. Going too fast. He’d have to slow down if he was going to find it.

“Is there another access road to the property?”

“No.” The driver had slowed, was backing up, probably knowing that they were cornered. Maybe not realizing who he was going up against. Not an elderly woman wandering through the snowy woods, and not an unsuspecting caretaker rushing to find her. Two well-trained operatives who weren’t going to be taken out easily.

“Anyone in the house? It looks empty, but I don’t want to take chances that we’re going to put civilians in the crosshairs of a gunfight.”

“The place has been abandoned for years.” As a teenager, she’d spent time exploring the house with her friends, walking through the dusty rooms and looking at furniture that had been left behind decades ago. Eventually, the town council had opted to board up the windows and doors to keep the teenage crowd from partying there, but Stella hadn’t let that stop her. She’d found a way into the cellar and brought friends there to tell scary stories.

“Any way to get inside?” Chance asked, that edge still in his voice.

“Yes. There’s a cellar door in the back. I broke the lock years ago. Unless someone has fixed it, we should be able to get in.”

“You called 911. Did you let Simon and Boone know we’ve got trouble?”

“Yes.” She’d texted coordinates to both of them. She didn’t have time to check for a response. She was too focused on the truck. The driver had finally found the entrance and was bouncing over the planks that led to the driveway.

“He’s in,” she said.

“And we’re out of sight,” Chance replied, pulling around the side of the house and throwing the SUV into Park. “Let’s go,” he commanded, but she was already moving, jumping out and running to the cellar door.

It was covered with debris—snow and grass and dirt.

She found the handle and tugged, trying to pull it open. She could hear the truck’s engine, the swish of tires on grass and dirt. A quarter mile. That’s how far it was from the road to the house. A few seconds of driving, and the guy would be there.

Chance grabbed the handle, wrapping his hand over hers and yanking hard. The old door finally gave, swinging up and open.

“Get in!” Chance shouted, nearly shoving her into the cellar. She stumbled down rickety steps, tripped over an old box and fell, sliding on hands and knees across the earthen floor.

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