The Last Noel

The Last Noel
Heather Graham

It's Christmas Eve, and all is neither calm nor bright.With a storm paralyzing New England, the O'Boyle household becomes prey to a pair of brutal escaped killers desperate to find refuge. Skyler O'Boyle is convinced the only way they can live through the night is by playing a daring psychological game to throw the convicts off their guard.Threatened by a pair of Smith & Wessons, she has to pray that the rest of her family will play along, buying them time. Her one hope for rescue is that the men are unaware that her daughter, Kat, has escaped into the blizzard. But as the wind and snow continue to rage with all the vehemence of a maddened banshee, her prayers that Kat can somehow find help seem fragile indeed.When Kat stumbles on a third felon, half-frozen and delirious, her shock deepens, because she recognizes Craig Devon immediately. What is the onetime love of her life doing back in town–and in such company? With the threat of death hanging over the O'Boyles, Craig is desperate to unload a vital secret that could change their destiny. But can he trust Kat with the truth? Because one false move and everything he's sacrificed will shatter–and this could be everyone's final Christmas alive.

HEATHER GRAHAM

THE LAST NOEL

With much love and best wishes for some wonderful people

who are like Christmas gifts all year long:

Aaron Priest, Lucy Childs, Adam Wilson, Dianne Moggy,

Margaret Marbury, Loriana Sacilotto, Donna Hayes,

Craig Swinwood, Alex Osuszek, K.O., Marleah and all the folks

in PR and art, and very especially for an incredible woman

who can also spell—Leslie Wainger.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

“But…this is Christmas Eve!”

The old man, frail and almost skeletally thin, stared at them in disbelief. His voice was tremulous, and he seemed to shake like a delicate, wind-blown leaf.

“You’re right. It is Christmas Eve, old-timer, and you’re not supposed to be here,” Scooter said.

Craig found that he couldn’t speak. This wasn’t supposed to happen. There shouldn’t have been anyone here. When he’d hooked up with Scooter Blane, the man had been all but invisible. He and his partner, Quintin Lark, were becoming heroes in a certain stratum of underworld society for their long string of extremely profitable robberies. But no one had ever gotten hurt. Ever.

But they only hit places that were empty.

Like this place should have been today.

There had been rumors, though. Rumors that the pair could be ruthless when they chose. But rumors were just rumors. Crooks needed them, went out of their way to create them, because they lived and died for them.

Killed for them?

But the real word on the street was that the pair were experts at slipping in and slipping out. Hitting fast, disappearing.

As far as Craig had been aware, they had never hurt anyone or even, thanks to careful planning, come across anyone still working during one of their heists.

He had discovered when he threw in with them that Scooter was frighteningly savvy with electronics. He’d seen that demonstrated when they arrived tonight and Scooter had broken the alarm code in a matter of seconds, unlocking the door as if they were being invited right in by an invisible host.

And now…

Now he was discovering that Scooter was equally adept with firearms.

Like the Smith & Wesson .48 special he suddenly pulled.

“But I am here. And I’m not letting you destroy my livelihood,” the old man said now, despite the gun in Scooter’s hand.

Craig was pretty sure that the octogenarian’s name had to be Hudson. The sign on the small shop in the valley advertised it as Hudson & Son, Fine Art, Antiques, Memorabilia and Jewelry.

It was the jewelry and antiques they’d come for. Scooter and Quintin were becoming infamous all through the Northeast for knocking off a long string of jewelry and antique stores. They went for family establishments—the type not found in malls. The kind in small towns, where the biggest crimes tended to be speeding or graffiti. They struck, then disappeared, and the insurance agencies were the ones to pay. Easy in, easy out, and no one got hurt, except in the wallet.

Craig had never heard of Scooter or Quintin using a gun.

Then again, he’d never heard of them ripping off a place where someone had remained behind after hours.

But there was a first time for everything. Here, in a little hick town in Massachusetts, they had found the place where someone was still around.