Table Of ContentTable of Contents
Deadly Abandon
Copyright
Praise for Kallie Lane
Dedication
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
Epilogue
A word about the author...
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose
Press, Inc.
Deadly Abandon
A Shadow Soldier Novel
by
Kallie Lane
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance
to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is
entirely coincidental.
Deadly Abandon: A Shadow Soldier Novel COPYRIGHT © 2012 by Kathryn
Donaldson All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced
in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild
Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical
articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected] Cover Art by Kim Mendoza
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com Publishing History
First Crimson Rose Edition, 2012
Print ISBN 978-1-61217-317-7
Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-318-4
Published in the United States of America
Praise for Kallie Lane
“A high-octane thrill ride you won't be able to put down.”
~Coreene Callahan, author
Dedication
This book is dedicated to the memory of two young men who left us too soon:
David Donaldson and Sean Hill. You made the world a better place, and will
never be forgotten.
To my readers, with heartfelt thanks. Without you, I wouldn't exist as a writer.
To the men in my life who show me the way; my sons, Chris and Dave, for
your endless support and positive input.
A round of applause to Coreene Callahan, my brilliant critique partner, fellow
writer, and all around buddy. You always make me laugh, even when my villains
bring me down.
Very special thanks to Steve Roberts, Lieutenant Detective of Major Crimes
Division Ret., SPVM (Service de Police de la Ville de Montréal). You kept me
honest with this one, Steve, although I may have ventured into “improper police
procedure” territory a time or two. You're not to blame; any mistakes are entirely
my own.
To Jennifer Martin, friend, hockey player, and hockey mom. (We hung out in
the arenas like rink rats when our kids were young.) Thanks for your invaluable
help with this one, Jenn.
To J.J. Wilhelm for reading the final draft. You always put your amazing
brain to work, and discover threads to my logic that really won't make sense to
anyone else. Thanks for that.
To the MTL gang and the members of ORWA, for your amazing support.
To Lori Graham, Senior Editor, Crimson Rose, and all the rest of the gang at
the Wild Rose Press. Thanks for believing and making this book a reality. Your
commitment and enthusiasm inspire me. Your hard work is awesome.
Last, but not least, to the men and women of the Canadian military, both
active and retired. For your loyalty and commitment to making our country a
safe and better place to live.
Chapter One
Mallard Bay, Lac St-Louis
No point in getting too close.
He followed her on the lake from a distance. He’d done his homework,
stalked her for months, knew her most intimate secrets.
Her hopes and dreams.
The squall raging overhead jazzed the blood flowing through his veins. Lac
St-Louis was a she-devil at the best of times, famous for her mood swings and
hidden perils. Tonight she was his ally—lots of boom, boom noise and no one
else on the water for miles.
Lightning stroked the underbelly of thunderheads and backlit his quarry. The
canoe battling the waves, her muscles pumped like pistons to outrace Mother
Nature’s onslaught. Sniffing the air, he imagined the faint scent of her shower
gel drenched in sweaty fear. Inhaling deep, he savored the imagery, tasted it on
the back of his tongue.
Keying the Whaler’s ignition, he idled, waiting for the right moment to strike.
Her head turned in his direction. Was it female intuition or something more
primal…maybe the will to survive? Recognition widened her gaze.
“Yeah, baby. I’m here.”
The hunt was on.
Gunning the engine, The Shepherd closed the distance between them within a
few seconds. He clipped the canoe broadside with a shuddering crunch. She flew
through the air and crash-landed in the water. Quickly reversing thrust, he settled
alongside her in the backwash then stretched overboard, hooking a hand at her
nape to keep her afloat.
His gaze roamed the shape of her in the skin-tight training gear. He envisioned
her naked where his hands ached to cruise. Wild-eyed and bloody, she fought to
break his grip. He laughed, grabbed her windpipe, and squeezed. Not too much,
but just enough.
It wasn’t long before she writhed from lack of oxygen. Her throaty rasps
almost drove him to his knees. Disgust at his own body’s weakness transferred
to the woman, fueling him with white, hot rage.
“You’re evil…like all the others.”
Scooping her paddle from the waves, he wielded it one-handed above her
head, swung it again and again, until she had no more voice. No more air. No
more life.
Her dead eyes slid open and stared at him as if begging to know why. He
released his grip on her neck, watched her sink like a rock, and shook his head in
disbelief.
You know why, Miranda.
****
Homicide Lieutenant Detective Sullivan Sauvage entered the red brick cottage
in time to catch his lead detective’s wince as he blew past him for the door.
What the—?
Something was off.
His gaze tracked Detective Clemente as far as the foyer before it wide-angled
on the cottage’s interior. Local Mallard Bay police trampled the crime scene like
elephants at the Big Top, guaranteeing the evidence integrity lay somewhere
between royally screwed and a major fuck fest. With practiced control, Sully
swallowed his distaste and resigned himself to salvaging whatever was left.
“Listen up! A woman has died here, and whether it was accidental or murder
still needs to be determined. Let’s show her some respect by letting the experts
do their jobs.”
He ripped a page from the notebook he carried and passed it to the closest
uniform. “Unless you’re an evidence tech, I want you to beat your boots out of
here. Print your name and badge number on the sheet before you leave. The rest
of you start processing the scene.”
He watched the Mallard Bay uniforms head for the door as Clemente pushed
his way back through it. He was easy to spot in the tan suit, cream shirt, rust-
colored tie and brown wingtips. A six-five, loose-limbed clotheshorse, he hissed
a breath freshener spray in the direction of his chalky lips.
“Sorry, Loot. My stomach’s not as cast-iron as it used to be.”
“Let me guess…you scarfed down hot dogs and fries for breakfast again?”
“Nope. Pizza and a chocolate shake on the way to the scene.”
“A dumb-ass move when you’re about to view a corpse, Sal. You’re worse
than a junkyard dog.”
“Yeah, well, my refined taste buds crave junk food.”
Sully shot him a glare. “The next time you hurl at one of my crime scenes, I’ll
ship you over to Vice. A willowy guy like you…they’ll pour you into a dress,
slap on a wig, paint on some make-up, and then use you on the streets for stake-
outs.”
“Shit, Loot. You wouldn’t…”
A smirk tipped the corners of Sully’s mouth before widening to a grin. “Don’t
tempt me, hot shot.”
While the criminalists started their evidence sweep in the front rooms, he
motioned his detective along the hallway leading to the back of the house. He
couldn’t help but notice the framed photo on a built-in shelf as he passed. Three
bikini-clad women splashed in a hot tub. Champagne flutes raised, they grinned
for the camera. He guessed one of them was the victim, Rainey Dubé.
What a damned shame. She’d been a woman in the prime of her life. He saw a
lot of cases like this one, and he gritted his teeth every time he encountered such
loss. Such tragedy. Such tremendous sorrow from victims’ families.
As they moved through the house, he turned the dial down on his disgust and
cranked the switch on his cop instincts to pick out all the little details.
They entered a white brick kitchen with black granite counters on the left and
steel appliances to the right. A chrome table in an alcove was set for one, the
remains of a meal congealed on a dinner plate. The woman had eaten alone.
French doors at the far end of the room opened onto a landscaped yard. Sully
followed Clemente down the steps, along a flagstone path to where the body had
been found. “Tell me what you’ve got.”
Pulling a notepad from his jacket pocket, Sal flipped through the pages. “The
pool guy called it in an hour ago, after he found the victim lying at the bottom of
her hot tub.”
Sully recognized the redwood tub from the photo in the hallway. A Japanese
portico surrounded it, trellises thick with greenery and trailing flowers. Fairy
lights bobbled from the ceiling. A tinkle of wind chimes stirred in the morning
breeze. A woman’s place with a woman’s touch. It should have been a safe
haven.
A ceramic frog croaked when they entered the portico, its ribbit sound a clear
warning to anyone in the tub if someone approached.
He glanced at Clemente. “What was the pool man doing here?”
“A follow-up visit for routine maintenance. There was a faulty timer switch
on the tub and the jets wouldn’t kick on. The problem was diagnosed a week ago
and the part special-ordered. It arrived early this morning so he came back to do
the installation. His story checks out with the pool company.”
Sully nodded then steadied his nerves before peering over the side of the tub.
A noxious odor hovered. Small wonder Clemente had spewed his breakfast.
The woman lay naked at the bottom, her hair caught in the drain. Sightless
eyes stared up at him as if pleading for his help. He returned the stare, noticing
signs of petechial hemorrhaging in the whites of her eyes. He knew in his gut
she’d either been strangled, or suffocated; just as he knew there was nothing he
could do for her now, except catch the monster who had murdered her.
He recognized her from the photo in the hallway. She was the blond; the
redhead and brunette had book-ended her in the snapshot.
Sully frowned. “The water is filthy, hasn’t been shocked with chemicals for
days. She wouldn’t go in there without a fight.”
“I know, and it all slides downhill from there,” his detective grumbled. “The
first responders were a couple of patrol yahoos who decided this was an
accidental drowning. To make matters worse, they invited their buddies from the
precinct over to view the scene and confirm their “accident” theory—never
called it in downtown. We would never have known about it, except Sergeant
Millette was in the area and had his scanner turned on. Your first day off in over
a month and the shit hits the fan.”
“Sounds like the MBPD didn’t want Homicide taking the lead on their home
turf.” Sully rolled his shoulders to ease the kinks out of his neck. “The first
