Winter's Storm Read online

  Winter’s Storm

  Winter Black Series: Book Eight

  Mary Stone

  Copyright © 2019 by Mary Stone

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  To my husband.

  Thank you for taking care of our home and its many inhabitants while I follow this silly dream of mine.

  Contents

  Description

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Winter Black Series by Mary Stone

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Description

  They survived, but survival won’t save them.

  When the survivors of the massacre at the Riverside Mall are murdered one after the other, the police suspect a serial killer and turn to the FBI. Winter Black is on the case, working to track down the third person involved in the mass shooting that happened the same night she took down The Preacher, the man who killed her parents.

  The hit list is long while the list of suspects is short, and when the killer ends up dead, the suspect list narrows down to a pinpoint. The path to solving the case grows even more twisted, and protecting the survivors feels nearly impossible as the storm of hate grows bigger, more fierce as it moves closer to Winter, taking down anyone within its path.

  Who is this assassin? Are they intent on simply finishing what Tyler Haldane and Kent Strickland started, or is it worse? Do they intend to finish what The Preacher started as well? And where does Justin, Winter’s baby brother, fit in? Is he the storm? Or is he simply caught up in its force?

  Book eight of Mary Stone’s riveting Winter Black Series, Winter’s Storm, delves into a darkness we hope doesn’t exist and brings it close enough to feel its chill.

  1

  Before he stepped off the packed earth trail, Jackson Fisher cast a paranoid glance around the clearing. Though the moon was almost full, a handful of clouds had moved in to obscure all but a faint glow. Even if the sky was clear, the hiking trail he was about to leave cut through a wooded area, and the canopy of tree branches blocked out any light from the moon or stars.

  In the clearing, however, Jackson was afforded a clear view of the moon’s dim glow. The meager illumination was more ominous than helpful.

  As he strode through the clearing, Jackson shook himself out of the thoughts. Just because he couldn’t see Jaime yet didn’t mean he wasn’t there. Jackson needed to focus.

  Outdoor meetings with Jaime in the dead of night weren’t a new occurrence, but Jackson couldn’t help but feel like he’d wandered onto the set of a horror film. According to Jaime, his brain worked clearest at night, and the kid hated cities. As far as Jaime was concerned, the more rural, the better.

  Jackson had never been a fan of metropolitan areas, either, but right now he wished they’d agreed to meet at a twenty-four-hour diner. Or a damn mall. A festival with a million people pressed in on every side would have suited him better than the eerie quiet dancing on his nerves.

  He should just leave, he knew, but he needed this meeting. Just because he and Jaime disagreed on their methods didn’t mean Jackson could afford to cut ties with him. Jaime was a man of action, and their cause needed men like Jaime.

  As a show of good faith, Jackson had reluctantly agreed to meet with Jaime at the isolated area. The kid was volatile, but he appreciated small, polite gestures.

  Now, Jackson had to hope that this display of goodwill would start their dialogue off on the right track.

  Slowing his breathing to a quiet rhythm, he listened to the rustle of the tree branches in the night breeze. The sound was unobtrusive, but at the same time, it might have blocked out the slight disturbance of footsteps on the grassy clearing.

  A flicker of movement from a line of shrubs behind a picnic bench jerked Jackson’s attention away from the edge of the forest. Despite his efforts to keep his breathing measured, he took in a sharp breath at the sudden disturbance.

  He’d looked over the area behind the picnic table, and he was sure he’d spotted nothing out of the ordinary. Still, somehow, there he was. Jaime Peterson.

  With both hands thrust into his pockets, Jaime walked up to stand just to the side of the wooden bench. Jackson slowed his advance but didn’t let his stare waver from the shadowy figure.

  In the darkness, Jaime’s trademark olive drab jacket looked black. As he moved to close the distance between them, his dusty work boots made little more than a whisper of sound against the lush grass.

  Truthfully, Jackson didn’t want to stand any closer to the lunatic than was absolutely necessary. But he couldn’t back up now. He wouldn’t back up now. In front of Jaime Peterson, Jackson would show no weakness, no hint of anxiety, not the slightest shred of fear.

  Crossing his arms, Jackson felt the reassuring weight of the forty-five he’d tucked into a holster beneath his arm. He was sure Jaime was armed, but the kid’s weapon of choice tended to be a six-inch hunting knife. Jackson had only seen him brandish the blade once, back when they first met.

  Back then, Jackson had been confident that Jaime shared the same goals and ideals as he did. He was sure Jaime’s ties to Tyler Haldane and Kent Strickland were proof enough of his dedication.

  He should have known better.

  The second he saw the look in those eerie blue eyes, he should have known that Jaime Peterson wasn’t like him.

  Jackson had been dedicated to the cause since before Tyler Haldane and Kent Strickland had taken up arms to spread their message at the Riverside Mall in Danville, Virginia. Jackson’s father and his father before him had been dedicated to the same cause as Tyler and Kent—to return the country to its glory days. The days when women knew their place and men could be men. But he should have known that Jaime was different.

  Jaime wasn’t dedicated to a cause. The kid was a psychopath, and he was out to advance only one cause. He served only himself. He used the guise of their mission merely to satiate his own bloodlust.

  Despite the realization, Jackson had still accepted Jaime’s offer to meet up at a tattered picnic table just off a quiet wooded trail. Even if Jaime served no cause aside from his own desire to kill, the kid could still be useful. He was a weapon. If Jackson found a way to point him in the direction of their adversaries, he could fire him like a Howitzer. Jaime would do the dirty work, and Jackson’s hands would remain clean. When the cops came to investigate the series of brutal murders, they would wind up at Jaime’s doorstep, not Jackson’s.

  But a weapon like Jaime Peterson was volatile on its best day, and downright treacherous on its worst. Jaime might have be
en a psychopath, but he wasn’t stupid.

  He should have known Jaime wasn’t one of them.

  The shadows shifted along Jaime’s scruffy face as his lips curved into a smile that sent a wave of icy fear down Jackson’s spine. “You came. Honestly, I wasn’t sure you would.”

  Jackson forced a neutral expression to his face and nodded. “We’re still in this fight together, brother. Just because we don’t agree on everything doesn’t make us enemies.”

  The statement was at least partly true. Hopefully, the half-truth would keep Jaime’s suspicions at bay. Jackson wasn’t here to mend fences with the kid. He was here to sever their relationship.

  As Jaime returned the nod, the same unsettling smile remained on his lips. “I’m glad to hear that.”

  The ice in his voice told Jackson that he was anything but glad.

  As much as Jackson wanted to back away four or five paces, he held his ground. “We’re fighting the same fight, but we aren’t fighting it the same way.”

  Jaime lifted an eyebrow. “So, you think that man I killed for you should have been allowed to live? He was married to a black woman. You and I both know that’s unnatural.”

  Grating his teeth, Jackson nodded. “I know. I understand why you did it, but I don’t see how we can sustain our fight by murdering civilians. We need to think bigger. We need to gather our forces, and we need to target the weaklings in our government. Not by killing them, but by usurping their power. That is how we win this fight. We cut the head from the snake, not the tail.”

  Jaime tilted his head to the side in what Jackson could tell was a feigned show of pensiveness. “And how, exactly, would we do that without killing them?”

  Jackson opened his mouth to reply, but Jaime cut him off.

  “They still have too much support. We’re here to get rid of that support. We’re here to finish what Tyler and Kent started. They weren’t afraid of spilling a little blood. The only way we can get the support we need is by proving that we aren’t weak. By proving that we’ll do what’s necessary to make sure our message reaches an audience.”

  Even as he racked his brain, Jackson knew he didn’t have a suitable rebuttal. He couldn’t say that the faces of the man and woman he’d killed haunted his dreams, even in his waking moments. He couldn’t express regret or remorse.

  Finally, Jackson shook his head. “I can’t help you with that, Jaime. You need to fight in your way, and I need to go my way. Even if we’re fighting for the same cause, we can’t work together if we don’t fight in the same way.”

  As Jaime’s face went carefully blank, the clearing lapsed into silence. The distant hoot of an owl and the hushed whisper of a temperate night breeze were the only sounds as the seconds ticked away.

  Parting ways with Jaime Peterson was like disarming a bomb. One wrong move, and shrapnel would rip through Jackson’s body like he was made of paper mâché.

  When Jaime spoke again, his voice shattered the eerie spell of quiet. “Okay.”

  Okay? That was it? That was all he had to say?

  Before Jackson could stammer out a response, Jaime met his gaze and laughed, the sound splitting the quiet of the night. “What’s that look for? You look like you’ve wound up in the middle of a warzone or something. What, did you think I was going to kill you? Jesus, Jackson.” Shaking his head, Jaime pulled his hands from his pockets and rested his hands to his hips. “Stop acting so paranoid.”

  Jackson swallowed as his heart rate increased, adrenaline spilling into his system. The remark had been made to placate him, but he still wasn’t so sure he believed anything that came out of Jaime’s mouth. All he managed in response was a nod.

  Jaime’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. A less keen observer might have missed the gradual movement as Jaime slid one hand around his back beneath his jacket, changing his stance to cover the motion. The action was slow and deliberate, but Jackson had been put on high alert as soon as the psychopath moved his hands.

  “You’re right.” Jaime shrugged, and his hand moved a little more. “We’d be better off if we were both playing to our strengths. Yours is communicating, and mine is…well…”

  In a blur of motion, the pale moonlight flashed against silver as Jaime unsheathed his favored hunting knife. By the time the blade was in Jaime’s gloved hand, Jackson had only just wrapped his fingers around the grip of his forty-five.

  He already knew he would be too slow to brandish the weapon, but he’d be damned if he didn’t try. Jaime had brought a knife to a gun fight, and Jackson had the gun.

  But the speed with which he’d produced the knife didn’t seem humanly possible. Jackson wasn’t out of shape, though he carried a little extra weight on his broad frame. Jaime, on the other hand, was tall and lean. And he was fast.

  With one swift step, Jaime closed the distance between them just as Jackson pulled his forty-five free of the holster. Jackson didn’t have time to so much as bring the weapon to bear when Jaime arced his arm down with the same blinding speed.

  Fire ripped through Jackson’s forearm as the blade tore through muscle and tendon with a sickening wet rip. Jackson didn’t remember initiating the sound, but a sharp growl of pain escaped his lips. The world was moving in slow motion, and he felt as if he was fighting his way through molasses.

  He clenched his hand as tightly as he could manage, but the effort to maintain his grip on the forty-five was for naught. Though he didn’t know much about human anatomy, he could only assume that Jaime had severed a tendon or damaged a muscle. Each minute movement sent a new fire rippling through Jackson’s forearm, all the way up to his shoulder.

  With a muffled thump, the forty-five fell to the grass.

  The glint of the pale moonlight was dulled by the blood that stained the blade as Jaime retracted his arm for another blow. As Jaime brought his arm down to drive the blade into Jackson’s heart, he frantically pivoted his body to the side.

  Rather than pierce Jackson’s heart, the hunting knife cut deep just above his collarbone. A freshly fanned fire licked at each and every nerve ending along Jackson’s shoulder and chest. For a split-second, he was almost convinced that Jaime had indeed hit his heart.

  As Jaime sidestepped to follow Jackson’s movement, the muted light glinted off the wicked blade like it was an otherworldly weapon and not just a hunting knife. Another series of clouds had moved in to obscure the moon and stars. How fitting for what Jackson was sure were his final moments of life.

  No. I won’t let this psychopath win. Not tonight.

  Jackson took a frantic step backward as he clasped at the newest wound with his uninjured hand. The forty-five was still on the ground, but Jackson knew better than to try to secure the weapon. The second he turned around to reach for the handgun, Jaime would seize his opportunity and jam the blade into Jackson’s lung.

  He needed to run. He knew he couldn’t outpace Jaime for long, but as long as he could get to his car, he would be in the clear.

  Spitting out a string of obscenities, Jaime stepped forward and raised the knife again.

  With a sharp intake of breath, Jackson spun around on one foot and darted away from the clearing. He trudged directly into the thicket that formed the perimeter of the picnic area, but he didn’t balk as the branches of a handful of shrubs scratched at his cheeks. The fire of his two stab wounds far outweighed any potential discomfort that came with a jaunt through thick vegetation.

  As he emerged from the line of bushes, he increased his pace to an outright sprint. He was sure Jaime was right on his heels, but he couldn’t focus on the kid’s proximity right now. With one hand clamped down on the deep shoulder wound and the other rendered all but useless by a well-placed cut, Jackson had to use all his energy to keep one foot in front of the other.

  Adrenaline cut through the fire of the injuries as he zigzagged around tall trees and unruly bushes. As he approached a fallen log, he realized that he had no idea where he was going. He thought he’d taken off in the direction of the gr
avel parking area, but now, he wasn’t so sure.

  For the first time since he’d started to run, Jackson dared a glance over his shoulder. Though he half-expected to see the menacing shape of Jaime’s tall form, the area was still. Trees stood close to one another like a series of shadowy sentinels, but try as he might, Jackson couldn’t spot so much as a hint of movement.

  Despite Jaime’s absence, Jackson kept his ragged breathing as quiet as he could manage. After another paranoid glance around the area, he picked his way over to hunch behind a jagged, moss-covered rock.

  If he wanted to get out of these woods, he needed to get his bearings. He carried a compass whenever he went for a hike or a hunt, but he hadn’t thought he’d need the device tonight. When he left his car to trudge up the trail to meet Jaime that night, he hadn’t expected to wind up in the middle of a forest.

  Not that he knew which direction would lead him to his car, anyway. If he’d thought to bring his compass, he’d have stopped to get his bearings, but he’d taken no such precaution. A foolish mistake. One of many mistakes he’d made that night.

  After wiping the blood off one hand, Jackson reached into a back pocket for his smartphone. Though he wasn’t surprised to see that he had no service in the isolated woodland, he barely managed to bite back a handful of four-letter words.

  He was lost. In the middle of a forest at half-past midnight with a psychopath on his tail, Jackson was lost.