Cold & Deadly (Cold Justice: Crossfire #1)
Toni Anderson
Prologue
The shooter nestled behind the low brick wall on top of the four-story building. The wet asphalt was rough on the knees, but the wall was the perfect height to support the barrel of the Browning X-Bolt Micro rifle with its Ledsniper hunting scope.
A quarter of a mile away, across a busy highway, a group of men and women in somber suits crowded around a hole in the dirt. Diamonds of moisture clung to the tips of fragile blades of lush green grass. A slight breeze ruffled the dense leaves on the sturdy oaks.
Details of the grief-stricken mourners’ faces were razor-sharp. The crispness of pressed, white, cotton shirts. Grizzled whiskers poking through wind-reddened cheeks. The soft, plump curve of an earlobe pierced by an expensive, gold earring.
Crosshairs found the handsome face of Dominic Sheridan. His dark blue eyes were reddened at the rim, skin pinched as if consciously holding back emotion. A cleft marked his chin, underscoring a wide mouth set to grim.
Funerals did that to a person.
People milled about, supporting one another, united in grief, blind to danger—sad, devastated, hurting.
Would this tear them apart?
Would it destroy them?
Would it make them wake, screaming in the darkness, night after night, year after year, victims of relentless, perpetual anguish?
Would they understand? Or would they remain oblivious to the last man?
The trigger was smooth and silky to the touch. Index finger perched, delicately balanced on the precipice of life and death.
Vengeful.
Powerful.
Godlike.
A long, slow indrawn breath. A breath that marked the moment everything changed. The moment the darkness became visible. Death became a reality.
A steady exhale found the body’s natural pause. Then, that seemingly endless moment of inertia as the trigger was gently squeezed, forcing the firing pin to strike the explosive charge in the bullet and retribution to obliterate flesh at 1700 miles per hour.
Now the endgame began. Now everything changed.
Chapter One
Van Stamos—FBI retired—had eaten his gun. According to the powers-that-be it had been an accident. Van had gotten hammered one night last week and mistakenly shot himself with the service weapon the Bureau had so generously let him keep after thirty years of dedicated service.
Dominic Sheridan wasn’t fooled.
Van had been walking around occasionally drunk and in charge of a loaded firearm for four decades, first as a beat-cop and then as an agent. It seemed like a hell of a coincidence the guy suddenly got careless enough to make a hole in the roof of his mouth right after he retired.
Dominic pressed his lips together as he and his fellow pallbearers eased the casket onto a pedestal beside the grave. He silently fought the frustration and anger that filled him every time he thought about this kind, decent, hard-working man taking his own life. Dominic should have been there for him. He should have known this might happen. He blinked away searing tears that burned for release. He wanted to walk away and find a dark corner and howl out his grief, but he knew how to hide his emotions better than most.
Van had done more to keep him alive and employed in those early days as a new agent than the rest of the FBI combined. Dominic had loved the guy but was still too pissed or repressed or goddamn screwed up to cry at his funeral. What was worse, Van would have totally understood and forgiven him. He was that good a person.
Sweat beaded Dominic’s temple. The fine wool of his black jacket was too heavy for the hot, sticky humidity of a late Virginia summer. His shirt clung to his back, making his skin prickle uncomfortably, the same way his mind itched for answers. The monotonous rumble of the priest’s voice competed with the incessant buzz of a deer fly who wanted a piece of him. He ignored them both, the same way he tried to ignore his friend’s body laid out in that wooden casket.
Right now, it was hard to think about anything else.
Dominic had known the transition was gonna be hard on a guy who’d been a mover and shaker in his time, who’d helped put away notorious mobsters and violent serial killers. Playing golf and joining the local bridge club was hardly in the same league as keeping America safe, although Van had assured Dominic he was looking forward to peace and quiet after a long, satisfying career.
He’d put in his time, Van had told him with one of those ironic little smiles. And then he’d eaten his own fucking gun.
A bead of sweat ran down Dominic’s temple and into his starched collar. This was the third funeral in the last year for agents he’d worked with at the New York Field Office (NYFO). Dominic was fast thinking the most dangerous thing a G-man could do was retire.
The fact Van’s death had been officially deemed an accident rather than suicide meant Van could be buried with his beloved wife, Jessica. If the diocese had denied Van that right, Dominic would have come down here in the dead of night with some fellow agents, a few good shovels, and moved the damned casket himself.
A woman’s voice cut through the service. Angry and sharp. It punctured the somber atmosphere the way a shard of glass pierced flesh. Dominic recognized Special Agent Ava Kanas arguing with Supervisory Special Agent (SSA) Raymond Aldrich, the man who’d become her boss upon Van’s retirement.
Realizing she’d caught people’s attention, the agent lowered her voice. Judging from her body language, though, she was doubling down on her argument with her boss. Her jaw was iron hard, body tense, pale fingers gripping the material of her black blazer so hard that her knuckles gleamed.