Cold Shot
© 2016 by Dani Pettrey
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
Ebook edition created 2016
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4412-2942-7
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design and photography by Kirk DouPonce, DogEared Design
Author is represented by Books & Such Literary Agency
To Lisa:
For being a faithful friend,
sister at heart, and partner in crime.
Love you!
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Dani Pettrey
Back Ads
Back Cover
1
F
og wafted over the silent hilltop, dancing in eerie waves amidst the centuries-old trees, the weathered trunks the sole markers of the lost graves littering the grounds surrounding them.
Shoving his frost-nipped fingers into his stiff jeans pockets, Angus Reed shifted his weight, trying to pump some warmth into his limbs. His cousin Ralph moved slowly, methodically, over the grid they’d compiled.
Gazing up at the slip of a moon glimmering behind the clouds, he whispered, “Come on. Stay out just a while longer.”
It was too risky to use any light other than the moon’s, even if it was the observant ranger’s night off. Angus shook his head. The man possessed a level of dedication and fastidious attention to detail the other rangers did not.
His leg twitched. The search was taking too long. “Anything?” They should have found it by now.
“Shh,” Ralph hissed. “I gotta concentrate.”
The twitching intensified.
Concentrate quicker
.
An owl screeched overhead, sending Angus’s heart racing. He caught a glimpse of its shadow disappearing with the moonlight into the thickening cloud cover.
“Maybe we should come back another night.”
Ralph’s detector hummed to life.
Angus smiled. He
knew
it. Too many men had died on this hill. Many left to rot in mass graves, even more unaccounted for—just like his great-great-great-grandpappy.
Why should that woman and her team get all the treasure just because they had a sanctioned dig? His kin died defending this hill. Why should some anthro-archaeologist or whatever she was swoop in and steal what belonged to the families of those lost?
Nah. He was taking what was his—a chunk of the history his kin helped shape.
The detector whirred to a fevered pitch at the base of a gnarled oak tree, and Angus’s shoulders slumped with hard-earned relief.
About time.
“Told ya.” Ralph snickered. “Get the shovel—and some light.”
The thickening cloud cover left them no choice. They needed some light to work by. Resting the flashlight on the ground would hopefully limit the beam’s reach.
Clutching the handle, he cut into the earth. A foot down, the tip of his metal shovel twanged off a hard shock of resistance.
Ralph gaped at him with a tooth-filled grin. Angus couldn’t remember the last time he witnessed his burly cousin smile—the sight bringing the days of them as young ’uns running wild through the Pennsylvania countryside back with a
whoosh
.
Pulling a trowel from his bag, Angus aimed the light downward and set to work uncovering the source of resistance.
Griffin grabbed a flashlight from his desk drawer and slipped it into his belt loop. He preferred the stillness of night, nothing but the moonlight to guide his steps, but the moon had all but disappeared behind the burgeoning blackness of sky about to let loose with rain. Hopefully he’d get his rounds in before it started. Leave it to Hank to get married on a cold, soon-to-be very wet, November night.
Not that he minded swapping shifts. In fact, he far preferred patrolling the park after hours, without the usual throng of tourists—just him and the battles’ casualties sharing the hallowed ground. He’d drive the necessary perimeter, then park behind Devil’s Den and climb to his favorite lookout, which afforded him the best surveying spot outside of the tower.
His gun in his holster, he shrugged on his coat and zipped it up. Grabbing his hat off the hook by the station door, he stepped out into the brisk night. The air was thick and held the promise of rain, the fresh scent tantalizingly close.
Clearing the lower grounds, he made it to Devil’s Den before the rain began. After parking his car, he took off on foot from the boulder-strewn area, heading for Little Round Top. Yes, there was a road winding around the back side of the hill famous for the 20th Maine’s heroic standoff, but driving took the fun out of it. This time of year he was likely to see deer—even bats if he was silent enough—blending in with the darkness.
Cresting the rise, a faint glow caught his attention.
Halting, he listened.
Two muffled voices.
He crept closer, pulling his weapon. Vandals or relic hunters, most likely. Either way he wasn’t approaching multiple unknowns unarmed.
“There it is!” a man hollered.
“Keep digging,” a second man responded.
Griffin’s jaw clenched as the men and the grave they were desecrating came into view.
“Looks like we found ourselves a soldier and some fine artifacts.”
Griffin clicked on his flashlight, holding his weapon steady. “Oh, I’d say you found yourselves a whole lot more than that.”
Finley’s phone vibrated against her rib cage.
Please be an out.
Slipping it from her clutch nestled tightly between her body and the stiff chair arm in the darkened concert hall, she glanced at the number and recognition dawned.
Ranger McCray?
Seriously?
At nine o’clock on a Saturday night? The man really had no life outside of work. She looked over at the date her mother had set her up on and winced. Actually, she was only pretending at one. Had been ever since . . .
Blackness flashed before her eyes, and then the shining light. She blinked, her chest tightening, her palms moistening.
No
.
Not now. Not surrounded by all these people
.
Please.