Atonement

Avon, Massachusetts

Copyright © 2015 by Winter Austin.
All rights reserved.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

 

Published by

Crimson Romance

an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

www.crimsonromance.com

ISBN 10: 1-4405-9112-1

ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-9112-9

eISBN 10: 1-4405-9113-X

eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-9113-6

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Cover art © iStockphoto.com/Cameron Whitman

 

 

For the men and women who deployed while serving our country and came home with more than they left with. Nic's story is yours.

First and always, to my Lord and Savior, who paid the ultimate sacrifice.

Much time and effort goes into writing a book, and many things get pushed aside and in some cases left undone. Yet my family managed to survive. My kids have a way of reminding me that my time with them is short, and though they drive me crazy at times, they always make me laugh and help me find ways to relax. I love 'em, and I love their willingness to learn new things, such as how to can produce from an overabundant garden. The summer of 2014 was memorable, to say the least.

For my husband, Shawn, who started a lifelong dream-come-true job as an Ag teacher and FFA adviser.

To Amanda, though our time was short, it was so very good. You're still the best.

I would not be a complete author/writer if it weren't for the dedication and tolerance of some special people. First, Rachel Leigh Smith, who has been the intrepid Zoe to my Wash. Not only did she make the mistake of introducing me to
Doctor Who
, but she got me sucked into
IT Crowd
and forever cemented my Nerd status. Welcome to the world of a published author.

Many thanks to Sue, whose knowledge of the inner workings of a sheriff's department kept me on the up and up as best as I could.

To Julie Sturgeon, whose ability to fix my mistakes and bring out the best story possible has made our editor/author relationship so fun, I think she spoiled me. Editors are a picky lot, but somehow I managed to grab Julie's attention and not let it go. I'm so thankful that we're working together again on another project. Here's to a lot more in the future.

 

• Title Page
  
• Copyright Page
  
• Dedication
  
• Acknowledgments
  
• 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
  
• Chapter Twenty-four
  
• Chapter Twenty-five
  
• Chapter Twenty-six
  
• Chapter Twenty-seven
  
• Chapter Twenty-eight
  
• Chapter Twenty-nine
  
• Chapter Thirty
  
• Chapter Thirty-one
  
• Chapter Thirty-two
  
• Chapter Thirty-three
  
• Chapter Thirty-four
  
• Chapter Thirty-five
  
• Chapter Thirty-six
  
• Chapter Thirty-seven
  
• Author's Note
  
• About the Author
  
• More from This Author
  
• Also Available
  

Once she looked into the lens, she embraced death.

Deputy Nicolette Rivers settled against the Remington's cheek weld and peered through the Leupold scope. Five hundred yards away in a two-story farmhouse with chipped, white paint flaking off the wood siding, a domestic situation had turned volatile. For the first time in more than three years Nic was called on to use skills she'd hoped to never use again.

While the sheriff wanted to negotiate a peaceful end, he wasn't stupid enough to keep Nic on the sidelines. He needed her eyes on the target: the out-of-control man standing over the cowering woman and her three children. Nic's mouth drew into a thin line. She'd chosen this area for its lack of hostility and crime. Had chosen Nowheresville, Iowa, because there wasn't a need for a former marine sniper.

Nic regretted putting her special skills on her résumé.“This is Rivers reporting in. I'm in position,” she said into her mic receiver.

“Go ahead,” Sheriff Hamilton replied.

The sheriff's command post was on the opposite side of the house from her position. The abandoned truck made for a perfect spot. It was the right height from the bed to the roof, leaving her able to settle against the rusted frame and lean into her scope. And the huge, uncovered picture window at the back of the house gave her access to the hostage situation.

Nic rattled off the position of each person in the room, the layout as far as she could see, and what the subject was doing. All info the sheriff expected, knowing he'd use it as he negotiated. Inside the house, the man lifted a bottle of liquor to his lips and guzzled. His actions tugged up the bottom of the shirt and revealed more surprises. “Male subject … Dusty is drinking. He's carrying a twenty-gauge and has a nine-millimeter tucked in his pants' waistband. Do you copy?”

“Copy that, Rivers.”

Before the sheriff's link fully closed, Nic heard a fellow deputy's protests in the background. He'd been harassing Hamilton to be allowed to talk to the target—his cousin—and was denied. In fact, Deputy Doug Walker had been ordered to leave the premises before Nic hiked off to grab her rifle and get into position. Walker swore up and down his cousin would never in a million years hurt his wife and kids. Never.

Famous last words.

Nic blew air between her puckered lips. Another disgruntled husband taking matters into his own hands. She ground her teeth, popping her jaw. Even at 500 yards away, she could sense the tension flowing from the man. The Leupold put her right there in the middle of the action, minus the noise.

Dusty threw the now-empty bottle. His wife and kids recoiled; the younger of the bunch ducked her head into her mother's neck. Words were exchanged between the adults; Dusty's face turned a ripe shade of crimson. He waved the shotgun at the front of the house.

Suddenly he jerked straight as a board and then rotated. An ugly scowl crossed his face as he stomped out of sight.

“He's left my visual.”

“Stay steady. He's probably answering the phone.”

A bead of sweat slithered between Nic's shoulder blades. More formed on her upper lip. She was roasting in full tactical gear. She should've set up the blind to protect her from the late September sun. But Hamilton worried the situation would escalate quickly, and he needed her on the rifle. The heat wave sweeping through Iowa hurled her back to the Afghan climate.

Don't go there, Nic. Focus on the target with the bottle.

Target. Not Dusty. Old habits died hard. In the back of her mind, she knew that was a man inside the house, a father and husband with friends, family, and coworkers. But in the course of the day, maybe the week, he'd lost it and decided holding his family at gunpoint sounded like a good idea.

She had to separate the situation from the personal aspect.

Shut it down, Nic. You weren't trained to sympathize with the targets. He's pointing a gun at children, endangering their lives. And that makes him a threat.

The truck creaked under her as she shifted her weight. She needed to kneel. If she stood for too long her back would start cramping from the weight of the Remington and being in a bent position.

Nic blew at a single stubborn strand of hair that had worked its way out from under her cap. How long had it been since the call came in? Two hours?

She needed water. Where the hell was a spotter when she needed one?

Inside the house, the wife's head darted back and forth. She must be looking for a means of escape. Her desire was thwarted when the target returned to view, a cell phone pressed to his ear. Since Nic couldn't hear the conversation, she assumed the sheriff had silenced his side of the comlink to keep her focused. The target pointed the shotgun at one of the kids.

“Damn,” Nic muttered.

His face graduated from dark red to purple dotted with white blotches. He pulled the cell away and screamed into the mouthpiece, then threw it at the window. The unit hit the glass, and a web of fractures blocked her view.

“Shit!” Nic lifted her head. “Male subject has obstructed my visual. Moving to secondary position on the other side of the house.”

“Move fast, Rivers. Situation is on a hair trigger.”

Nic hoisted the Remington onto her shoulder. In her previous trek around the property to find the perfect shooting position, she'd managed to find a good backup. Hooking her rucksack on her elbow, she hopped out of the back of the truck and ran.

The underbrush and brambles snagged at her pants. Recent rains had saturated the ground, and it squished under her boots. But nothing was stopping her. She wouldn't lose an innocent on her watch.

“Rivers, be advised, I'm attempting to make contact again.”

“Copy.”

Nic ducked under a tree and shuffled to the spot looking directly at three small windows on the east side of the house. Falling onto her kneepads, she removed the tripod from her rifle and prepped the weapon for a kneeling position.

She brought her right knee up and planted her booted foot into the firmer soil. Bracing her right elbow on her thigh, she leveled the rifle at the window and adjusted her sights. Movement in A2—the first-floor second window—snagged her attention. Nic lined up with the window and saw the man. Her gut twisted. “Male subject spotted. He's got the shotgun leveled.”

“Rivers, stand by.”

Deputy Walker's fading hollers of protest rattled through Nic's head. Oh hell! Sheriff Hamilton was thinking she'd have to put one in the subject.

Focus, Nic.
Counting to five, she slowed her breathing. Her focus zeroed in on the image in the scope. Detach. Her breathing now matched the pace of her pulse, slow and steady.
Embrace the death. It's a good kill.

“Rivers, you're clear to shoot. Do you copy?”

“Copy.”

Negotiations had broken down. Male subject was a risk. Nic's finger curved around the trigger.

A brilliant flash inside of the house made her blink.

“Son of a bitch!” Hamilton's exclamation hissed in her ear.

The subject pumped the shotgun and lifted it. In that split second, from about 600 yards, Nic took the shot and neutralized the threat.

Three kids were orphans. They would be forever traumatized by their father killing their mother in front of them, and then Nicolette putting a bullet through his head, spraying his gore all over the wall next to him.

Nic slid down in her seat until she could just see over the dashboard of the sheriff's Dodge truck. She'd be forever haunted by her deed and the furious, grief-filled reaction she'd received from her coworker for killing his cousin.