Love is Murder Read Online Free PDF

big rock or something,” Grit said, half-serious. “I’ll be fine. Go.”
    Charlie was close to hyperventilating, his lips purple, the skin at his jaw splotchy. He looked younger than sixteen. “I have a gun.”
    Grit sank deeper into the snow, the ground underneath soft, beginning to thaw. “Figures. Is it loaded?”
    “Yeah. Of course. I wanted to be prepared. Just in case, you know?”
    Elijah had the weapon out of Charlie’s hand and into Grit’s in two seconds flat. A Browning 9 mm. It’d work.
    “It’s not mine,” Charlie said without a hint of defensiveness.
    Elijah held up a hand. “Stop right there. Don’t tell us anything we don’t need to know.”
    “I won’t get arrested. It’s a legal weapon.”
    No doubt Charlie could cite the appropriate Vermont and federal laws—or make them up as he went along—but a look from Elijah and Grit silenced him, which wasn’t easy to do.
    Despite his bullet wound, Elijah clapped an arm on the boy’s shoulders. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.” Elijah winced as he lowered his arm. “I’ve been shot, you know. I need a damn doctor.”
    “The bullet didn’t hit any major organs or veins or arteries,” Charlie said. “You’d be dead by now if it had. How’s the pain?”
    “Not as bad as the pain of listening to a kid with a 180 IQ yap at me.”
    Elijah’s teasing seemed to energize and steady the teenager as they headed down the path, around the curve. Elijah glanced back just once, his expression grim, penetrating, as if he wanted to beam his strength and determination into Grit. Grit wished he could. He’d figured out early on in life—long before his SEAL training—that he wasn’t Superman.
    He ducked past a hemlock and saw blood, still bright red, splattered in the white snow. For a split second, Grit thought he could smell it, then realized that was a memory of a long, violent night a year ago—and the memory of the smell of his own blood.
    You can do this mission.
    He swallowed at the sound of the familiar voice close to him, as clear and calm as it had been that night in Afghanistan. As real. “Hey, Moose. What are you doing here?”
    You’re in love with Marissa Neal.
    Grit’s throat tightened. It was true. He was in love with Marissa. It’d started when he’d first met her last fall, just for a few seconds. He’d been chasing hired killers. Charlie had been trying to help on the sly. Marissa had been starchy, annoyed with Grit, annoyed with her brother. Understandably. With the network of killers finally dealt with, she and Grit had been spending time with each other the past month.
    “Yeah, Moose. I’m in love with her.”
    But Michael “Moose” Ferrerra wasn’t there in the Vermont snow. He was dead, killed in action on a bad night last year in a remote Afghan mountain pass. Grit gripped the 9 mm and averted his eyes from the blood.
    He had no illusions. He knew he was alone, and he knew the Secret Service wouldn’t get there in time. He had to find Marissa on his own.
    * * *
    Marissa Neal shoved a heavy butcher-block island in front of the back door of the unoccupied ski house where she’d taken refuge, but immediately pulled it back to the center of the kitchen. She didn’t want to barricade herself in the kitchen after all. She wanted to be able to run out onto the snow-covered mountain if the man chasing her found her here.
    Unless he’s already in the house…
    She gave herself a mental shake, refusing to let her fear take control. She’d checked for footprints and signs of a break-in before she’d smashed the door window and slipped into the house herself.
    She was breathing hard, but she was no longer dripping blood. She’d torn her hand on a broken branch and had managed to tie her scarf over the cut. It ached, but she ignored the pain. Her thick leggings were soaked and cold from her trek through the snow. She’d fallen twice—maybe three times. Once in the house, she’d pulled off her gloves and hat but