The Christmas Target

She’d have been an easier target in DC. She lived alone there, in an apartment on the top floor of an old brownstone. He’d been to her place twice, and he’d lectured her both times. Not enough security. The doors were flimsy. The locks were a joke.

She’d told him to mind his own business, but that was Stella. She liked to do things her way. When it really mattered, though, she knew how to follow protocol and work as part of a team.

He moved toward the creek, retracing his steps, following the sound of voices and the flashes of lights through the forest. He thought he heard Stella, her voice about as familiar as his own. They’d known each other for a long time. Long enough to know each other well.

And to care about each other deeply.

He’d seen her crying while they searched for Beatrice. He wasn’t going to mention it. Not to her. Not to anyone on the team. Stella was indestructible and unflappable. At least, that’s what she wanted everyone to think.

The air changed, and he knew he wasn’t alone, that someone was just out of sight, hidden by the heavy boughs of a giant conifer. He didn’t pull his firearm. Anyone who wanted to take a shot at him would have already done it. A shadow separated itself from the trees, the gray edge of dawn highlighting red hair and a tall, narrow frame.

Despite his height, Boone Anderson moved quietly, his footfalls silent on the pine needles. “Find anything?” he asked.

“One of Beatrice’s slippers and a path through the woods.”

“We going to follow it?”

“You and Simon can. Let the local PD know what you’re doing and where you’re heading.”

“You’ll be at the hospital?”

“Someone has to be.”

“Stella can usually take care of herself.”

“She’s in bad shape. I don’t think she’ll be doing much of anything for a while.”

“How bad?” Boone cut to the chase. No extra questions. No speculating. He was a straight shooter. He did his job and he did it well, but his heart was with his family—his wife, his new baby, the daughter he’d lost years ago and had recently been reunited with.

“Probably a lot worse than she’s going to admit. A pretty deep gash to the temple and one on the back of her head.”

“And she probably thinks she’s going to be up running a marathon tomorrow.”

True. That was Stella. To a T.

“Where’s Simon?”

“Sent him down to the creek to see what the ruckus was about. Looked like the medics were carrying a gurney in. I’m assuming they’ve got to carry someone out. The grandmother?”

“We found her in the creek. She wasn’t breathing.”

“Pulse?”

“Yeah.”

“Then she’s alive, and we’re going to pray she stays that way.” Boone pulled out his cell phone, texted something, then slid it back in his pocket. “I told Simon you were on your way. You go do what you need to do for Stella and her grandmother. We’ll keep you in the loop, and we’ll play nice with the local PD.”

“You’d better. I don’t think you’ll like prison food.”

Boone snorted, pulling something out of his pocket and holding it up for Chance to see.

A bag of homemade cookies.

Typical of Boone. The guy never stopped eating.

Any other time, Chance might have smiled.

Right at that moment, all he could do was think about the tears that had been sliding down Stella’s cheeks. He’d never seen her cry. Not on the worst missions. Not when she’d been exhausted or tired or injured. Not when things had seemed hopeless or the person they’d been looking for had been found too late.

Not even at her grandfather’s funeral.

Never.

Not once.

Because Stella didn’t cry.

Except that she did, and he’d seen it, and he didn’t think he’d ever forget that.

Boone opened the bag and took out a cookie. Unflappable. Just like always. He’d done what he’d been asked to do, and he’d keep doing it, but first, he’d eat.

“I always come prepared. Tonight, it’s a dozen homemade chocolate chip cookies,” he said. “I’ll share, but only because my wife told me I have to.”

“You can tell her that you tried, but I’m not in the mood for cookies.”

“Worrying won’t change anything. You know that, right?” Boone bit into the cookie, his gaze as direct as his comment.

“That won’t stop me from doing it. Keep your nose clean, Boone. I’m heading out.” Chance jogged back to the creek, every nerve in his body on high alert. He hadn’t expected trouble. He’d found it.

Now he was going to deal with it.

A dozen people were standing near the creek—police, park rangers, paramedics. Simon stood next to Stella, his hand on her shoulder, not holding her up but pretty close to it.

He met Chance’s eyes, mouthed, She’s done.

“I am not,” Stella bit out, her body shaking beneath a blanket someone had tossed over her shoulders. “Done.”

“That’s a matter of opinion,” Simon countered as paramedics lifted Beatrice onto a backboard. She’d been swaddled in blankets and had an IV in her hand, but she was breathing, an oxygen mask covering her mouth and nose. That was an improvement, and it gave Chance hope that she might recover.

“My opinion is the only one that matters,” Stella muttered, but she didn’t seem interested in the argument. She was watching as the medics strapped Beatrice to the board and lifted her.

“Careful,” she warned, as if the team needed to be reminded.

They ignored her.

Which was surprising since she had blood dripping down the side of her face and more of it seeping from beneath her hair. She was also pale as paper, her skin completely leached of color. Chance would have thought every available medic would be hovering around, cleaning her wounds and getting her ready to be transported. She must have refused treatment, insisted that the attention be given to her grandmother.

Now her grandmother was on the move, and Stella looked like she planned to follow.