Fatal Burn (West Coast 2) - Page 1

Prologue

Indian summer

The forest near Santa Lucia, California

Three years earlier

He was late.

He checked his watch and the illuminated digital face glowed eerily in the pitch-dark forest.

Eleven fifty-seven.

Hell!

He’d never make it in time and would draw attention to himself, something he could ill afford.

Picking up his pace, he jogged along the uneven terrain, running downward in this stretch of low wooded hills, far away from civilization.

Far away from discovery.

The sounds of the night crept into his brain: the rustle of autumn leaves in the hot breeze, the snap of a dry twig beneath his hurried footsteps and the thunderous pounding of his own heart, thudding wildly, pumping adrenaline through his veins.

He sneaked a glance at his wrist, the face of his watch registering midnight. His jaw tightened. Perspiration seemed to pour from every inch of his skin and his nerves were strung tight as an assassin’s garrote.

Slow down! Don’t announce your presence by crashing through the underbrush like a wounded stag! Better to be a few minutes late than to destroy everything by making a clumsy racket.

He stopped, drew in several deep breaths and smelled the tinder-dry forest. Beneath his dark clothes he was sweating. From the hot night. From his exertion. From a sense of anticipation. And from fear.

He swiped at the moisture in his eyes and drew in a long, calming breath. Concentrate. Focus. Do not slip up. Not tonight.

Somewhere nearby an owl hooted softly and he took it as an omen. A good one. So he was late. He could handle it.

He hoped.

Once his heartbeat had slowed, he dug into the pocket of his tight-fitting jacket, found the ski mask and quickly pulled it over his head, adjusting the eye and nose holes.

Looking downward he saw the first flicker of light in the shadows. Then another.

Flashlights.

They were gathering.

His heart nearly stopped.

But there was no going back, not now. He was committed. Just as they were. There was a chance that he would be caught, that they all would, but it was a risk they were all willing to take.

He continued his descent.

As a full moon rose higher in the sky, he jogged the final quarter mile through the stands of live oak and pine. Forcing his heartbeat to slow, he slipped around a final bend in the trail to the clearing where the four others waited.

They were all dressed like he was, in black, their faces covered by dark ski masks. They stood about three feet from each other, in formation, what would be a circle as soon as he joined them. He felt all the hidden eyes stare at him as he stepped into the spot that completed the ring.

“You’re late,” a harsh voice whispered. The tallest was glaring at him. The leader.

Every muscle in his body tensed. He nodded. Didn’t reply. No excuse would be acceptable.

“There can be no errors. No delays!”

Again, he inclined his head, accepting the rebuke.

“Do not make this mistake again!”

The others stared at him, the offender. He kept his eyes trained straight ahead. Eventually they all turned their attention to the leader who was slightly taller than everyone else. There was something about him that emanated power, a fierceness that came through—something that said he was a man to be respected…and feared.

“We begin,” the leader went on, mollified, at least for the moment. With one final glance around the circle, the leader bent down to the ground. With a click of his lighte

r, he touched the small flame to a pile of twigs which crackled and caught. Small, glowing flickers of fire raced in a predetermined path. The smell of burning kerosene caught in the wind. One sharp point of fiery light became defined, then another as the symbol ignited, a blazing star burning on the clearing.

“Tonight it ends.” The leader straightened, taking his place at a tip of one star point. They each stood at the end of one of the projections, their boots dangerously close to the flames.

“No more!”

“Everything’s in place?” the person to his right asked in a hiss.

Man or woman?

He couldn’t tell.

“Yes.” The leader glanced at his watch. There was satisfaction in his tone, even pride, though his voice was still disguised. “You all know what you need to do. Tonight Ryan Carlyle pays for what he’s done. Tonight he dies.”

The latecomer’s heart clutched.

“Wait! No! This is a mistake,” another one of the group argued, as if a sudden sense of guilt had claimed him. Or was it a woman? The dissenter was certainly the shortest of the lot and was wearing clothes baggy enough to be deceiving. He was shaking his head as if grappling with his ethics. “We can’t do this. It’s murder. Premeditated murder.”

“It’s already been decided.” The leader was firm.

“There must be a better way.”

Tags: Lisa Jackson West Coast Mystery
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