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  Shoot to Thrill

  T.L. Schaefer

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Shoot to Thrill (CASI, #2)

  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

  Also by TL Schaefer...

  About the Author

  Shoot to Thrill

  Colorado Academy for Superior Intellect (CASI), Book 2

  By TL Schaefer

  Published by Terri Schaefer

  Copyright 2014

  Cover by Sweet ‘N Spicy Designs

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at [email protected].

  All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination. www.tlschaefer.com

  Dedication

  For Jenn Mason, who’s always there to smack me in the noggin when I need it. Not sure what I’d ever do without you, chica. For my awesome betas, Paris and Heather, you two kept me honest.

  And as always, to my heart of hearts, my hubby of 20+ years, my real-life romance hero, August.

  Prologue

  Now... Kansas City, 7:45 p.m.

  I sank into the almost-skeevy hotel room chair and toed off my shoes, so exhausted even my teeth hurt.

  The air conditioner kicked on with a rattle, and it would have made me jump if I weren’t so damned tired.

  I leaned back against the headrest of the chair and closed my eyes, but even then all I could see were the faces of the families—which was better than the faces of the victims. I’d learned to shut them out long ago, otherwise I knew I’d have drowned my sorrows in about a hundred bottles of scotch long before today.

  This case was kicking my ass, draining me both mentally and physically, and lately, there just hadn’t been much of a well to draw from. I was tired, more than a bit heartsick, and ready for a change, but it wasn’t as if the FBI was running out of cases, both hot and cold, to solve.

  Even as I told myself it was the job that was dragging me down, I knew I was lying to myself. I’d shut out Special Agent Wes Burke’s face, just like I’d learned to with the victims. Put away the mental picture of my best friend, my ex-partner, because the fact he was never coming back hurt too much. Hurt so much I almost hadn’t returned to the Bureau.

  But I had. And here I was, six weeks later, neck-deep in someone else’s misery. I was what I did. What I’ve always done. The dead needed someone to speak for them, and for the foreseeable future, I’d be speaking for five-year-old murder victim Tessa Aria, in a case now three decades cold.

  So I pushed away Wes’ memory, and got to work.

  I rifled through my case file box, looking for an interview done over thirty years ago. Being the FBI’s go-to girl for the unofficial cold cases section had been my choice, my request, but it had become a parade of one low-budget chain hotel after the other, and now they all looked alike, just like my cases were starting to blend together. If I hadn’t eaten some pretty fabulous barbeque tonight, I probably wouldn’t even know I was in Kansas City.

  I found the interview I was looking for and settled back against the chair. I’d be re-interviewing this witness tomorrow, seeing if she remembered anything else about the little girl who’d disappeared from a neighborhood park thirty-two years ago, and the panel station wagon she’d last been seen in. Hunters found her remains years later in Arkansas, with little forensic evidence to point out who’d killed her and left her body in a remote part of the Ozarks. Dentals had confirmed her identity, and we’d been called in because the victim had been taken across state lines.

  Standard procedure. Which sucked on so many levels I couldn’t even begin to count them. I really, really hated cases like this. It was easier when it was an adult who disappeared, or was killed. They’d had at least a fighting chance at life. But a five-year-old? Hurting kids made me want to inflict some damage on the assholes who’d done this, who’d taken a child’s innocence and exploited it in the worst way possible.

  Yeah, today was definitely one of those days—new case, dead kid, not-quite-shitty hotel. Even good barbeque couldn’t begin to balance out my day.

  So when my cell rang, I seriously debated even picking it up. But I couldn’t let it go. Never have been able to, probably never will.

  “Thomas,” I answered, not even bothering to sound polite. It wasn’t as if my bosses expected it of me anyway.

  “You want to know about Burke? Check out the Colorado Academy for Superior Intellect. He was a student there.”

  I shot up, phone gripped tight in my hand as I focused on the voice whispering spy-like and sinister in the phone’s earpiece. “Pardon?”

  “Wes Burke,” the caller repeated, “you’ll find the truth about him in Colorado.” And then the atonal, sexless voice was gone, replaced by a static-y hum that was somehow more disturbing than the words had been.

  What the hell? I swallowed hard, the beer I’d had with my dinner threatening to come up, my heartbeat thundering in my ears.

  Chapter One

  What went before... Twenty-four years ago

  It was a beautiful night, the stars bright against a velvety sky. Around me, the musically inclined members of our colony serenaded us. I could almost see the music of the flute and drum. They made sense to me. It was comforting when so many other things seemed messy.

  “Listen to the flutes, Arin.” Mama sat next to me, her voice melodic as we watched the dancers around the bonfire. “Do you hear how plaintive they sound, like they’re crying in the night?”

  I knew I was going to disappoint her before I said a word. I knew it, even at the tender age of ten. “No, but I understand them.”

  Her hopeful expression fell. She turned to Bianca. Perfect Bianca, who sat, enraptured by the very things I couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

  Now... outside Colorado Springs, 9:00 a.m.

  I stepped out of my SUV and straightened the pencil skirt and trim jacket I’d donned in deference to my cover. In six years with the Bureau, I’d never worn such a ridiculous costume. My duties, even when I’d been a forensic accounting cube monkey, tended more toward slacks and flats or Rockports, not the pastel pink nightmare I sported nor the ridiculous strappy stilts masquerading as shoes I teetered on. I looked like a freakin’ brunette Barbie Doll. I’d even straightened my hair.

  It was humiliating. Then again, this wasn’t an assignment. It was personal. This was for Wes. Something twisted inside me at the thought, actually made me rub a hand over my heart. I was such a mess. I blew out a breath and pushed my shoulders back, put some steel in my spine. I could do this. I would do this.

  I’d wrapped up the Kansas City case a few weeks ago. Not so surprisingly, the perp was someone th
e family had known. It wasn’t as if my stellar detecting skills had solved it, either. Nope. One of the local stations decided to run a story on the disappearance and death of little Tessa Aria, and had requested an interview with me. Since it was no secret I was in town, especially to anyone remotely connected to the case, I agreed. If our evildoer wasn’t a local, it wouldn’t have mattered.

  But he was. Three streets over, an acquaintance who’d sold vacuum cleaners, of all ridiculous things. But back in the day, it was a job that kept you hustling and on the road if you wanted to earn a living. Mobility like that had given him a perfect cover, and a perfect way to dispose of Tessa. Now the perp was dead by his own hand, leaving a suicide note explaining what had happened and how very sorry he was.

  As endings went, it wasn’t horrid, wasn’t optimum. The family had closure, but hadn’t been able to confront the man who’d killed their child. God, my job sucked. It wasn’t much of a stretch after an outcome like that to ask for vacation, which had been granted with no questions asked.

  And now, here I was. Agent Arin Thomas was now, for all intents and purposes, Arin Thomas, Investigative Reporter. My skin crawled at the thought.

  But it was the only easy cover I could use that didn’t require a metric ton of background work and the requisite notification to my chain of command. Nope, I was doing this one on the sly, and until right this moment, the thought hadn’t really bothered me.

  I’d done a bit of poking around on the internet and in a few low-level Bureau databases that wouldn’t raise any flags about the Colorado Academy for Superior Intellect, after the mysterious call that had put all this in motion, and the more I looked, the more things started to look off-kilter. Very few organizations came back lily-white in the vast machinery that was the Bureau, so it hadn’t really bothered me overmuch. After all, I hunted murderers for a living. I couldn’t care less about tax fraud and rich kid privilege. But now that I was here? The place bordered on creepy, although I couldn’t pinpoint exactly why.

  I’d driven through one hell of a set of gates to get here—reminded me of a prison, almost. And now I stood on a high hill, the June sun warming my head, looking down over a beautiful landscape of trees, meadows and valleys. It was gorgeous. God’s country. It was like coming home.

  Except for the freakin’ monster mansion at my back.

  I spun on one ankle-breaker spike heel and looked up at the massive building looming over me and barely shook off a case of the heebie jeebies.

  Coming home indeed. Now it felt as if spiders were crawling across my neck. I resisted the urge to swipe the phantoms away and concentrated on surveilling the area, my days in Hostage Rescue coming back with a vengeance. Even though I’d only been their linguist, I’d picked up enough during my time with them to get exceedingly nervous as I looked around this “school.”

  The Colorado Academy for Superior Intellect looked as imposing as its name suggested. Hell, more so. What was Wes tangled in before he died? What did I throw myself in the middle of?

  I tried and failed to pawn off the feeling I was in someone’s crosshairs. Even as secretive as this school was, I couldn’t imagine they were protected by snipers. No, it was just twitchiness, brought on by the fact I didn’t have control, or a real direction to what I was doing, besides figuring out the mystery of what had really happened to Wes.

  If there was even anything to find. For the first time in a very long time I was working without a mission statement, a clear-cut goal. Even with cold cases I had a starting point. With this, all I had were too many assumptions and more than a few half-truths that had been easily uncovered.

  I had to wonder, as a trickle of sweat crept down my spine, if I wasn’t on a fool’s errand—or worse. No one in the Albuquerque office had been responsible for my anonymous phone call. It had taken me three weeks of digging and more than one ass-chewing from my boss, but my fellow agents hadn’t done it.

  So who had, and why? And was I a complete idiot for showing up here, knowing what I knew? Or didn’t know? Had I become the too-stupid-to-live chick who just has to see what the noise in the basement is?

  I shrugged. Even if I was, at least I was an armed, too-stupid-to-live chick.

  I took another long, steadying breath and began to climb the stairs. No matter how much flashing my shield and demanding answers fell into my comfort zone, Wes’ death had been ruled an accident, and if I wanted anything more detailed than that, I was going to have to employ some finesse. Or just outright lie. Finessing sucked, since I was no good at it. I was even worse at lying. But in my line of work, sometimes you had to pick one. Or both.

  At the top of the staircase, a set of heavy, ornate double doors opened slowly, as if the sunny summer day was too much to take all at once.

  The man who stepped out made the breath catch in my lungs even as he made every one of my girly senses come alive.

  Tall, with a runner’s build, he wore his blond hair too long for conventional business purposes, the slightly curling ends brushing the collar of a pristine white polo shirt. Tailored dun-colored slacks completed the prep-school ensemble, framing the rest of him perfectly. His face was classically handsome, marred only by a scar that slashed beneath his left eye, arcing into his hairline. He was still too far away for me to see the color of his eyes, but I’d bet my next dividend payment they were as striking as the rest of him.

  I shook off the quick shot of pure lust. I wasn’t here to ogle Mr. Handsome, though I was honest enough to admit I’d like to do more than gawk at him. No, I was here for information, closure. And when I got it, I might just consider taking a longer look at the man standing in front of me. Maybe. Probably not.

  I hitched the stupid girly purse barely big enough to hold my service weapon on one shoulder and climbed the granite steps, holding out my hand when I reached the top. In my heels I was an inch taller than him. So much for appearing vapid and harmless. I sighed internally and threw myself into my role.

  “Arin Thomas, News Today.” I pasted a too-bright, toothpaste-ad smile on my face. “I’d like to speak to the honcho in charge.”

  He regarded my outstretched hand like it was a poisonous snake, then lifted his gaze. “Miz Thomas,” he said, and it was easy to hear the curl of distaste in his words, especially when it was accented by a slight down-home drawl. “I have nothing to say to the media.”

  His eyes were a deep, rich chocolate brown. The contrast between his fair complexion and those eyes was arresting.

  I assumed the persona of every newsperson I’d ever met and rolled right over his objection. “So you’re Jonah Summers. Outstanding. I have a few questions for you.”

  He looked past me, as if expecting to see a newsvan complete with cameraman lurking behind my SUV. His gaze was hard, calculating and a lot more tactical than I would have expected, given his profession. A trace of surprise ghosted across his face, before quickly changing to pure disdain. The change from academic to predator back to banal was flicker-quick and downright disconcerting. His strategic assessment of his surroundings shouldn’t have been something that put me on alert myself, but it did.

  He acts just like I do. I maintained my shark-looking-for-a-story expression, but it was tough. He’d startled me, and I didn’t like it. It didn’t happen all that often anymore. It had to be the fact I was on a personal mission. Had to be.

  His scrutiny shifted to me, giving me a quick once-over that was thorough as a strip search, and all the more disturbing because I felt the weight of his gaze as clearly as if he’d laid hands on me. Outrageously sexy, should-be-banned-in-fifty-states hands. My heart beat faster in a pure, visceral reaction. Then his gaze locked with mine and something inside me clenched hard. Pure male appreciation darkened his eyes for just a moment, then was gone, shuttered by polite banality. Holy moly.

  He stepped back into the cool darkness of what looked like a foyer, pulling the door shut behind him as he spoke. “I have a standard answer. No comment. This is private property, and you’re tr
espassing. I suggest you leave before the police arrive.”

  I pulled myself together and did what any self-respecting reporter would do—I jammed the pointed toe of my stiletto into the rapidly diminishing crack.

  “Just a few questions, really,” I wheedled in my best little-girl voice, hating myself even as I did it. Undercover work like this was definitely not my strength, but I was usually better at it than this. With one not-so-simple look, he’d thrown me off balance, and I’d have to make do with what I had.

  The heavy door closed on my scantily-protected foot, making me yelp and jerk back less than gracefully. And from behind the door I heard a distinctly amused, distinctly male chuckle. Bastard.

  Fine, he wanted to play that way? Let the games begin.

  Back in my hotel room thirty minutes later, I nursed a Sam Adams, massaged my aching foot and reread the dossier I’d compiled on the Colorado Academy for Superior Intellect, a.k.a. CASI.

  You’d think, after actually being there, that I’d be able to associate a sense of time and place with the research I’d done. But the words on the page still looked the same—nothing shouted at me as being false, or even true. I was studiously ignoring my reaction to Jonah Summers, and his to me—for now. I had to focus on the reality of the research in front of me. Then maybe I’d veer into the uncomfortable personal stuff. Maybe. Probably. Likely.

  So I put myself to task. What I’d learned yesterday and the day before still held. CASI was a school for “gifted” children, but in this case the word “gifted” was euphemistic, with no mention of an IQ threshold or sports inclination. When you added all that uncertainty to the willies I’d felt upon seeing the “school” and the cop-vibe from Summers, it wasn’t exactly comforting, especially since I was officially off the reservation for this investigation. It was all me, and while that was usually the way I ran, today it rang false, as if I were trying to convince myself everything was going to be all right.

  Since I hadn’t lied to myself in many, many years, it was a disturbing feeling. With that in mind, I dove back into the research. There had to be something here, a nuance I’d missed, a clue as to what really happened to Wes, and why my mysterious caller thought I need to dig into CASI.