The Christmas Target

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Prologue

The man kicked back in the deep leather chair in front of the fireplace, propped his aching feet on the ottoman and rubbed the twinge in his shoulder. He was getting older.

But not too old to complete his mission.

Besides, he assured himself, he didn’t need brawn, only brains, to carry out his plans. Plus a ton of patience.

He had the brains. And he was a very patient man. He wouldn’t rush things. First, he’d toy with his victims. He wanted them looking over their shoulders, flinching at shadows, suspicious of every little noise, fearful of every stranger, wondering what the hell was happening to them and knowing they couldn’t do a damn thing about it. If they died suddenly, without fear, he’d miss half the fun.

Most of all, he wanted them to suffer for the trouble they’d caused. Only then would he remove them permanently from the face of the earth so they couldn’t create any more.

Satisfied that his cause was right and just, he picked up the glass from the table beside his chair, swirled the ice in the amber liquid and downed the rest of his drink. He could afford time to relax. Everything was in place. All was ready.

Death would only have to cool his heels a little longer before claiming his own.

Chapter One

Santa with a shotgun?

Jessica Landon peered through the frost-rimmed glass door at the plump, red-suited figure in line at the teller window. None of the other customers paid any attention either to his costume or his weapon. Did everyone in Montana carry a gun?

Welcome to the Wild West.

The thought made her grimace. With a sigh of resignation, she tugged open the door at the First Bank of Swenson, fought the opposing force of the blustery December north wind and hurried into the lobby. Cold numbed her fingers in too-thin gloves, wet snow sifted down her neck beneath the stylish collar of her lightweight cashmere coat and icy slush soaked her feet, exposed to the elements by elegant but now-ruined high-heeled shoes. She wasn’t accustomed to dressing for winter weather and, obviously, hadn’t got it right.

Welcome heat greeted her, but not the familiar moist, tropical atmosphere of her native Miami. The dry, fusty air of a central system, apparently operating at its maximum potential, seared her lungs and dried her skin. Longing for the humid warmth of Florida sunshine, she crossed the lobby toward a desk marked Information, where a bank employee was conferring with an elderly lady.

“Excuse me,” Jessica said, and shot a smile of apology at the older woman.

“Can I help you?” the bank employee asked.

“I’m here to see John Hayes,” Jessica said.

“If you’ll have a seat,” the employee answered in a pleasant but distracted tone, “he’ll be with you shortly.”

Jessica settled in a chair a few feet away, unbuttoned her coat and refrained from fanning her cheeks in the unnatural heat. Ever since her boss, Max Rinehart, had escorted her aboard her flight at Miami International, she’d been either too hot or too cold.

Thinking of Max, probably sunning himself and sipping a tall, cool drink beside the free-form swimming pool of his Biscayne Bay home at this very minute, she uttered a silent curse.

He’d given her no choice in accepting this assignment. “You’re the best consultant I’ve got,” he’d insisted, “and our client demanded the best.”

“You’re the best, Max. You should be flying to Montana in the dead of winter, not me.”

Max had grinned, flashing his amiable puppy-dog look that hid a savvy business mind. Brilliant sunlight streaming through the glass wall of his twelfthstory office glinted off his bald head, the wristband of his Rolex and the fourteen-carat gold buttons of his navy-blue blazer, tailor-made for his dumpling body.

“You know I can’t go,” he explained with an apologetic look. “The Christmas holidays are approaching. All the grandchildren and their pals from college will be descending on me.”

“What better reason to get out of town?” Jessica asked in a dry tone, but she knew how much Max doted on his grandchildren and that he wouldn’t miss spending their vacation time with them.

He spread his hands as if to accent his helplessness in the situation. “With their grandmother dead, God rest her soul, they need someone here to keep them in check.”

“So you’re sending me to the boonies while you ride herd on the party animals? Thanks a bunch.”

“Jessikins—” He rose from his desk and came to her, encircling her in a fatherly hug. “You’ve never made a secret of the fact that you hate Christmas and everything about it. I’m doing you a favor, giving you a challenging assignment to take your mind off your least favorite time of year.”

She couldn’t argue with him about disliking the holidays. From the time she was six until she was eighteen, she had spent every Christmas vacation alone in the cold impersonal dormitory of the New England boarding school where her parents had shunted her after their nasty divorce. As a result, she’d hated the Yuletide season and cold weather ever since.

“You’re all heart,” she said grumpily, but in spite of her irritation at the impending job, she could never stay angry with lovable Max. With her parents remarried—her mother was on her fourth husband, her father, his third wife—and flitting from one European playground to the next, Max was the closest thing to family she had. She returned his hug and offered him a teasing challenge. “I could forget Christmas even better during a few weeks on the beach at St. Thomas.”

“You bring back your report by January sixth, and I’ll give you the rest of the month in the islands as a bonus,” he had promised.

Remembering, she sighed and considered removing her coat in the bank’s heat. January couldn’t arrive fast enough—if she didn’t either freeze or cook to death before then.

The information officer launched into an explanation of social security direct deposit for the fragile old lady. Jessica shifted in her chair and glanced around the lobby. Except for the heavy clothing that bundled the customers against Montana’s bitterly cold climate, the bank, with its contemporary decor in fashionable neutral tones and its jungle of potted tropical plants, could have been in Miami.

Seven customers, including the gun-toting Santa, waited in two teller lines. At a table near the entrance, a tall, rugged cowboy stood with his back to her, filling out what looked like a deposit slip. His attire, including a suede, sheepskin-lined jacket, a battered Stetson pushed back off his forehead, butt-hugging jeans and tooled leather boots, would definitely draw a few stares in Miami. Unlike the Santa, however, the cowboy didn’t appear to be carrying a gun.

Jessica pulled her gaze from his long, lanky legs. Since the cowboy was apparently unarmed, maybe the West wasn’t as wild as she’d imagined. Its famous mystique was undoubtedly a myth. Take the cowboy, for instance. As seductively attractive as he appeared from behind, he was probably missing teeth, reeked of horse sweat and cow hides and had breath as foul as her mood right now.

Her temper was rising because she didn’t like waiting. She kept herself on a regimented schedule and could never understand why others didn’t do the same. Efficiency was good for business.

She glanced toward the door of a private office across the lobby where a brass plaque read, John F. Hayes. Hayes was the bank manager Max had told her to contact, but the employee at the information desk hadn’t informed him Jessica was waiting. She decided to take matters into her own hands and knock on Hayes’s door.

Ignoring the cowboy’s attractive denim-clad tush, Jessica conducted a mental review of Max’s instructions as she pushed to her soggy feet and crossed the room toward Hayes’s office. Her ability to concentrate on work to the exclusion of all else—that and her MBA from the Wharton School of Business—contributed to her success as a top-notch financial consultant and troubleshooter. Oblivious to everything but her assignment, she ran through a mental list of the questions she’d prepared for John Hayes.

Suddenly a bone-jarring jolt struck her and yanked her off her feet.

She yelped in surprise as strong arms surrounded her and jerked her against a chest as solid as case-hardened steel. The concurrent deafening blast of a shotgun and the cascading crash of the bank’s front window drowned her cry. She struggled against the grip of the cowboy she’d noted earlier—until she spotted the Santa from the teller line, pointing the double barrels of his shotgun directly at her.

“I said nobody move,” he shouted with an angry growl. “Don’t you understand English?”