Cold & Deadly Read online

  COLD &

  DEADLY

  By Toni Anderson

  For Karen Bell,

  For years of love and friendship.

  Cold & Deadly

  Cold Justice—Crossfire Series (Book 1)

  Hostage Negotiators can talk themselves out of anything—except falling in love.

  FBI Supervisory Special Agent Dominic Sheridan is an expert in Crisis Negotiations. Confident, professional, used to dealing with high-stake situations under tense conditions, Dominic is a master at manipulating people. Everyone, that is, but the headstrong rookie agent bent on destroying her fledgling career.

  As a child, Ava Kanas put her life on the line when the mob executed her father. Now someone has killed her mentor, the man who inspired her to become an FBI agent—and she’s the only one who recognizes it was anything but a tragic accident.

  When another agent is murdered and Dominic nearly dies, it becomes obvious a serial killer is targeting the FBI. Defying their superiors, Dominic and Ava search for clues in the investigation, all the while fighting a forbidden attraction that will complicate everything, especially when the predator sets their sights on Ava.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  About the Book

  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

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from A Cold Dark Place

  Cold Justice Series Overview

  Other Books By Toni Anderson

  About the Author

  Useful Acronym Definitions For Toni’s Books

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright Page

  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 f
ew 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.

  Dominic narrowed his eyes. He’d been introduced to Kanas at Van’s farewell party a couple of months ago. She was a rookie agent in her first office assignment (FOA) and looked young even for that. She’d worked with Van at the Fredericksburg Resident Agency in Virginia—Van’s final posting—and they appeared to have been close. His old friend and mentor had had only good things to say about the woman but then, even before his wife’s death, Van had always been a sucker for a pretty face. Dominic liked to form his own opinions and hadn’t had the chance nor reason to assess Kanas’s capabilities. He’d been busy catching up with Van and other old friends. Many were also here today. Nobody felt much like partying.

  The younger agent hadn’t stuck around for glory days or good-old-boy stories. Dominic didn’t blame her.

  She grabbed Aldrich’s arm. Her boss tried to pull away, but she wasn’t letting go. Dammit. They were about to cause a scene. Dominic excused himself from Van’s two grownup daughters and went to head off the brewing confrontation. It only took a few seconds to reach the fuming agents who were standing beside a gnarly, old oak at the edge of the crowd.

  Kanas eyed him warily. Her brown hair was pulled into a pony so tight it tugged at the skin beside her eyes. Maybe that explained the furrows of pain etched on her brow, but he didn’t think so.

  “Whatever the two of you are arguing about,” Dominic said quietly but firmly, “how about you rein it in until you’re back in the office.” He masked his ire but not his impatience.

  Kanas’s chin lifted, and he was pinned by fierce, hazel eyes.

  Dominic stared right back. He didn’t want Van’s funeral to be anything other than the respectful memorial the man deserved. More importantly, there were a lot of powerful people here today. Dominic didn’t want Kanas creating a spectacle of herself and possibly ruining her fledgling career. Van would have wanted Dominic to look out for her—the way Van had looked out for Dominic all those years ago.

  He called upon all his experience as one of the FBI’s top negotiators to dampen his own grief and anger and contain the situation. “I can see you’re angry, which sucks. But whatever the issue is, this isn’t the place.” He used a soothing voice without any inflection that could be misinterpreted as antagonistic. It was mellow and understanding and had helped talk down prisoners and desperados in hostage situations around the world.

  Kanas opened her parted lips to speak, but her boss beat her to it.

  “She doesn’t think it was an accident,” Aldrich murmured softly and nodded toward the coffin.

  Dominic’s gaze slid sideways to Kanas. The anger in her pretty eyes was replaced by a pain so raw it almost hurt to look at. She bit her lip and steadfastly examined her sensible black leather shoes.

  “None of us believe it was an accident.” Dominic’s gaze shifted back to the polished wood of the casket, and a fresh wave of guilt crashed over him. “But the last thing the family needs is anyone questioning Van’s right to be buried beside his late wife.”

  He shifted his feet, and the scent of wet grass and damp earth rose around him, thick and cloying. Combined with the setting, the scent spawned a sudden surge of memories that bombarded his brain. He shook them off.

  Suicide pissed him off.

  “You don’t understand.” Aldrich’s lips barely moved. “Ava thinks someone murdered Van. She wants the funeral stopped so the ME can conduct more tests.”

  Dominic’s eyes widened in surprise.

  “It doesn’t make any sense,” Kanas hissed, her voice low and urgent. “He called me last Tuesday afternoon.” The day he died. “He was fine. We had plans to meet for coffee after work on Wednesday.”

  Dominic urged her and Aldrich farther away from the rest of the mourners, out of earshot. Some people were starting to glare.

  “I’m assuming there was an investigation into Van’s death?” Dominic stared the rookie in the eye. He stood only a few inches taller, which made her close to six feet.

  “Evidence Response Team treated it like a crime scene, and there was an autopsy. No indication of foul play,” said Aldrich.

  Kanas looked mutinous. Dominic touched her arm to try and calm her and felt her jolt through the thin material of her blazer.

  “What makes you doubt the findings, Agent Kanas?” Because as sick as it might be, the thought of Van being murdered was a whole lot more appealing than the idea that his old friend had committed suicide. Guilt was a terrible thing. Catholic guilt was a bitch on wheels.

  And maybe that was Kanas’s problem too. Guilt that she hadn’t saved the man. That she hadn’t realized he was depressed or suicidal.

  “It doesn’t feel right.” She pressed her lips together and couldn’t hold his gaze.

  He’d never tell anyone to discount their gut feelings, Van had taught him that, but now wasn’t the time to cast doubt based on nothing more substantial than wishful thinking.

  He took in the devastation in her eyes and the slight trembling of her hands, and something else occurred to him. She was a beautiful woman and Van had technically been single…

  Dominic cleared his throat. “Do you know something the rest of us don’t? Were the two of you…involved?”

  Her chin snapped up. “I loved him, the same way you loved him and countless other people loved him. How many of them have you asked if they were sleeping with the guy?” She kept the volume down, but every word felt like a whiplash against his skin.

  “No one else is causing a scene at the man’s funeral.” He searched those angry hazel eyes for truth. “Except you.”

  She swallowed and looked away. “We were friends, nothing more.” Then she whispered urgently back at him, “I don’t believe it was an accident, and I don’t believe he took his own life.”

  Dominic took a deep breath. As tempting as it was to buy into her theory, there was no proof. Stopping the funeral would cause hurt and uncertainty for Van’s daughters, and the man would not have wanted that.

  “Look. He’d just retired from one of the most exciting jobs on the planet. His wife of thirty-five years lost a long battle with cancer less than two years ago. Van was hurting. I don’t want to believe it either—”

  “Except you’re not exactly fighting to figure out the truth,” she said bitterly.

  Ouch. That stung.

  He leaned in close so not even God almighty could overhear them. “Because the truth is he shot himself.” Grief and anger merged. “And that truth will hurt the people who have more right to mourn him than we do.” Dominic looked pointedly towards Van’s daughters who were leaning on one another in their sorrow. “Just because we don’t want to believe it, doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”

  Wasn’t that the goddamned truth.

  Kanas’s face crumpled, and tears swam in her eyes, and Dominic felt like an asshole. He put his hand on her shoulder, to give some comfort, but she jerked away.

  He let his hand drop, and the impulse died. “How about we get back to the service and discuss this later—”

  A loud crack rang out through the blustery morning. It took Dominic a fraction of a second to identify the sound.

  “Gunshot!” he yelled, turning and grabbing the nearest civilian and pushing her behind the tree. But rather than running for cover, people were milling around in confusion. Some were bending down near the graveside. Had someone been hit? Damn. Another gunshot echoed through the morning
air so loud and lethal it gave him chills. “Active shooter! Everyone find cover. Active shooter!”

  The crowd finally understood what was happening and spilled in different directions. He ran towards Van’s daughters who were so wrapped up in grief they hadn’t heard the shot and were bewildered by the sudden surge of movement. He wasn’t gentle or easy. He wrapped an arm around each woman’s shoulders and forced them into a position where they were protected by Van’s coffin and a large marble mausoleum.

  “Stay here and stay down.” He would never forgive himself if anything happened to Van’s kids.

  Dominic crouched as low as he could, pulling his Glock-22, scanning the surrounding area to assess the situation even as he called it in. The priest was cowering behind another tree, and people were crying as they huddled in terror behind any cover they could find.

  Goddamn son of a bitch.

  “Gun shot fired at St. Michaels’s Catholic Church.” He peeked his head over the marble and saw a crumpled form lying in the wet grass. Calvin Mortimer. Shit. They’d worked together in New York.

  The emergency operator was still on the line.

  “Federal agent down—we need immediate medical help. Might be an active shooter situation,” he added, even though it would delay the ambulance. He couldn’t in good conscience let first responders walk unsuspectingly into gunfire.

  Another bullet pinged off the tombstone above his head, making Van’s daughters shriek in fear.

  “You’re okay as long as you keep your head down. Do not break cover.” Assuming the shooter didn’t move firing position. He didn’t tell them that. He doubted that would happen. It seemed more like a sniper attack than a terrorist assault and law enforcement should be able to isolate and capture this UNSUB in situ.

  His gaze went back to Calvin lying motionless on the wet grass. The perfect target. Dammit. Dominic couldn’t leave the guy exposed like that. The distant scream of sirens sliced the air.

  He looked around and locked gazes with Ava Kanas who had drawn her weapon. She tipped her head toward Calvin. Dominic nodded, tucking his weapon back in its holster before sprinting from behind the headstone, expecting a bullet for his trouble.