A Killer Christmas

By Kari Nichols

Andy Moor, a CIA agent with a serious case of burnout, realizes that a break from the stress of her job is in order. So she decides to visit her sister. At Christmas. In New York City. As if that isn’t enough to tell her that her brain is too worn down to make good decisions, she agrees to go shopping in Times Square, a week before Christmas. When a body lands at her feet she’s almost relieved. Here, finally, is something she knows how to handle. That is, until she realizes that the dead guy is her former CIA trainer. Now she has a lot of questions. And the cop in charge of the case, NYPD Detective Jack Stone, keeps looking at her sideways. Cops and CIA rarely mesh well. Andy will have to convince Stone that she’s not involved in his case, professionally, or he’ll clam up and not play nice in the investigation. When another body turns up, this one with no connection to Andy or the CIA, Detective Stone relents enough to read Andy in on the case. The more time they spend together, the more Andy realizes Stone isn’t a moron. She actually kind of likes him. Dating a cop in the middle of what’s becoming a serial killer investigation might not be wise, but Andy makes a living by taking risks and sticking her neck out. As she closes in on the killer, she’ll have to be careful not to stick her neck out too far. The killer knows she’s on the hunt and he’s looking to turn the hunter into the hunted.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kari Nichols
• Release date: Feb 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463213797

Kari Nichols

Kari Nichols has over 15 years of experience working in the Vancouver video game industry. She has an unabashed love for action movies and one-man-army style novels. The plethora of male-dominated action heroes compelled her to write her own one-woman-army novels.

Book preview

Who the hell thought it would be a good idea to come to New York City, and to Times Square no less, a week before Christmas?

Andy dug her toe in a mound of snow, staring out at the sea of people milling around her. Some had a frenzied, hunted look about them. They’d probably left their shopping to the last second or had no idea just how much everything was going to cost them. Others, likely after several cups of mulled wine, looked blissfully happy. Her sister was like that, without the wine inducements.

New York is the best city in the world, Poppy stated. Why wouldn’t you come here at Christmas?

I like the city, sure, it’s the closest place to home for me, but I must have been insane to agree to this, Andy grumbled. And why are we here? Shopping? I’ve lost it. Completely cracked. She only had one person to shop for and that person stood right next to her. Pretty much negated her need to struggle through this madness, because she couldn’t buy anything without her sister seeing what she was getting.

Oh, quit your bitching, Poppy said, with a grin. You’re a girl and you love to shop. That’s all that’s needed here.

Not true. I could use a mega sized bottle of pepper spray and a club. That would clear the roads and give us access to all the goodies. Andy rubbed her hands together at the thought.

And it would help her regain some control. She didn’t have the upper hand here. Had to rely on her sister to get around. Should have studied those city and transit maps a little harder, she thought. She’d take care of that at her earliest convenience. New York City might be the closest thing she had to a home town, but that didn’t mean she knew it well. Toss her in Europe, anywhere, and she’d be fine. Here, she felt like the wide-eyed tourists that gawked at everything, getting in other people’s way, risking a mugging. The feeling didn’t sit well on her shoulders.

Then I’d have to arrest you, Poppy said. Pepper spray is illegal.

Why does everyone have it then? Andy demanded.

For protection, of course. You need it in this city.

Andy stared hard at her sister. You realize you just contradicted yourself. You need pepper spray to feel safe, but you aren’t allowed to have it?

The police are there to protect you. Poppy blew on her fingers, wishing she had better gloves.

Please! There are 35,000 cops in the city and, if you include all the tourists, about 12 million people. Not all cops are on duty, even this close to Christmas, so that’s what, about 350:1, people to cops? I don’t like those odds. Especially since most of those people are crowded in here with us and I can’t see one damn cop.

Um, hello, right here, Poppy said, pointing at herself.

Are you armed?

No, of course not. I’m off duty. And I’m shopping.

So what help would you be if a mugger decided to shove a gun in your face right now? Or if one tried for a purse a block away? You can’t stop a bullet with your big blue eyes, Pop, and it would take a half hour to cut through this crowd. The perp would be long gone.

Listen to you. Perp, Poppy snorted, though she silently agreed with her sister. She’d never be able to get through all these people if a real tragedy struck. And God help them if a riot started. The idea made her shudder.

Andy pushed through the crowds, her size making it a little less difficult than her sister. Standing 5’9 in bare feet, with a lean, powerful build, she could slide and glide through the dense crowd like a slicked-up eel. But her sister, 5’4 on a good day, and curvy with it, would fall behind.

It wasn’t a race, she reminded herself. She was supposed to be on holiday. She’d taken a break - well, truth be told she’d sort of forced herself into taking one - and decided to visit her only family. At Christmas. In New York City. No wonder her boss thought she’d needed the break, if she’d thought this would be restful. Her mind had definitely cracked. Split right open, letting her brains collect a freezing layer of frost.

What had she been thinking?

Can we stop for a coffee or something? Andy begged. I need to re-evaluate.

Re-evaluate what?

Life, love, and the pursuit of half-priced Louboutins?

Poppy laughed. Alright, there’s a coffee shop a block away. Probably only has 200 people waiting in the line. We should get inside in about three hours.

Perfect, Andy said, before Poppy could argue. Grabbing her sister’s hand to keep her close, she carved a path through the other lunatics in the Square.

An hour later, when they’d barely moved ten feet in the line, Andy crossed her arms over her chest and scowled at her sister. Clearly, you underestimated people’s need for caffeine at a time like this. The entrance to the cafe was still a good forty feet away.

We’re wasting good shopping time here, Poppy grumbled.

Andy brightened. You can go do that, text me where you are, and I’ll grab the coffees. Bring them to you.

Poppy gave it a long, thorough thought, then dismissed it. You’ll rabbit the first chance you get. You’ll give me some story about searching for another coffee shop. I’ll find you with your feet kicked up in front of the fire at your hotel.

Andy grimaced, knowing her sister was right. How did the woman know her so well? They hadn’t lived together in over ten years, and hadn’t seen each other in three.

Some things never change, Andy, Poppy said, reading her mind.

Andy resigned herself to standing in the freezing cold, outside a coffee shop, with little hope of actually getting inside before they shut the doors for the night. Eight days to Christmas and she still had to find something for Poppy. That meant purposely entering this madness, and likely at least one day closer to the cut-off date. She’d rather face down a pack of homicidal Santa Clauses wielding sharpened candy canes.

Glancing around, she saw no homicidal Santas, just one drunken one. He leaned against the wall, one knee raised, his head tilting to the side. Andy thought he’d fallen asleep, which was a dangerous idea on a day like today. His suit looked fairly clean, but his beard was less than snowy white. It looked as though someone had run it through a mud puddle. Maybe it was a real beard, she thought. If so, there wasn’t nearly enough white in it for a real Santa Claus.

Yo, Pop, can you help find that guy a place to sleep tonight? Andy asked, gesturing through the crowd of people to the dozing Santa.

Poppy bobbed and weaved as she tried to see around all the people. She was too short to look over their heads.

Against the wall, Andy said.

Poppy sighed, moving through the crowd for a better view. She approached the man cautiously. If she spooked him, he could lunge at her, and Poppy didn’t have her gun on her. She had her badge, and she took a moment to clip it to her jacket.

Excuse me, sir? Poppy said.

The man didn’t so much as twitch.

Sir? Poppy called out, giving his shoulder a little shake.

Santa slid to the ground, his fake-fur trimmed jacket flapping open. Poppy immediately reached forward and placed her fingers on his throat, cursed the gloves she wore, and pulled them off.

Andy abandoned the coffee line and squatted down next to the dead Santa. With her gloved fingers, she pushed the jacket aside a little further.

GSW to the chest, she murmured.

Poppy nodded, pulling her cell phone from her purse. She moved a few feet from the body, cupping her hand around her phone so her voice didn’t carry to the civilians nearby.

While her sister called it in, Andy scanned the crowd of people who hovered around them. The gunshot wound looked fresh. He’d taken the bullet sometime in the past hour or so, in her estimation. She hadn’t noticed him against the wall when they’d first joined the long coffee line.

Did you see him sitting there when we got here? Andy asked. She moved over to stand closer to her sister, so she could get a better view of the crowds.

Poppy shook her head, but didn’t speak. She was still providing details to Dispatch. Andy hadn’t thought so, either. She was usually more situationally aware, and would have noticed when the Santa staggered over and slid down the wall. Even her driving need for coffee wouldn’t have kept her from noticing a drunk Santa in distress.

Andy leaned over the Santa again, taking a closer look at the wound. There was very little blood, which made her think he hadn’t staggered anywhere. He wouldn’t have lived long enough to walk anywhere.

She hadn’t heard a gunshot nearby. Even a silenced shot would have echoed off the surrounding buildings. There was no way she’d have missed that. Neither would Poppy.

He must have been moved here after he’d been shot, Andy murmured.

I didn’t see him, Poppy said.

Me either.

They’d attracted some attention now. Santa keeled over, two ladies leaning over him. Andy saw several people pointing their phones at the scene.

Do what you can to control the crowd, Andy told Poppy. We don’t need a stampede in here once people realize he’s dead.

Poppy nodded, removing her badge from her jacket and holding it in the air. Police! she shouted, above the crowd noise. There’s been an accident and we’re going to need to keep this area clear for the paramedics to get through.

It’s no accident. We’re going to need Homicide here, Andy said, keeping her voice low so only her sister could hear her.

I’m a Detective, Poppy reminded her.

Yeah, in Robbery. Andy glanced over at the dead Santa. The only thing this guy’s been robbed of is the rest of his life. That doesn’t fall under your purview.

She glanced back over at the Santa, wondering who he was, when suddenly his body jerked. A second or two later, the sound cracked through the night, reverberating off the buildings around them. Andy dove at Poppy, taking her sister down to the ground. Using her body to shield her sister, Andy looked all around, but couldn’t see where the shot had come from.

Get down! Andy yelled to the people nearby. They stood around, chatting on their phones, some not even aware that anything was wrong.

Andy stood up, pulling Poppy back to her feet and keeping her sister tucked in behind her. Poppy, for all that she’d been tackled to the ground, had kept her cool as well as her grip on her phone. Now she furiously relayed details about the gunshot to Dispatch.

Andy studied the buildings nearby. Any of them could conceal a sniper. She had a basic trajectory, based on the way the Santa had jerked and fallen when the bullet struck him.

People were starting to realize that something was wrong. Since Santa was already down, the gunshot hadn’t had the impact it might have if he’d been running, or standing. Several women had screamed at the sound of the gunshot, but others murmured about fireworks. No blood pooled around the Santa, but it was clear he hadn’t merely passed out from too much holiday cheer.

While Poppy worked to calm the crowd, Andy, in turn, studied everyone around her. Who showed fear, and who showed too much interest in the deceased. As her gaze bounced over the crowd, she spotted movement on the rooftop of a building nearby. At less than a quarter mile away, the building had a perfect view of the area where the Santa lay slumped over.

The man stood there, staring down at the crowd. Andy could make out the silhouette of a rifle held down beside his leg. She couldn’t see his face, or any distinguishing details about his clothing. As he turned and walked away, she thought about trailing him. Glancing at Poppy, she saw that her sister was having trouble not just with panicked tourists, but with people snapping selfies with the dead Santa.

Jeez, Andy muttered. Pushing through the crowd of people, she glared at them. Show a little respect for the dead.

New York City didn’t take shootings in public lightly. First on scene was a SWAT team, followed closely by members of the FBI.

Special Agent Mark Wiggins, FBI. He held up his identification, flashing it around for everyone to see. The man stood barely an inch taller than Poppy, which made him several very noticeable inches shorter than Andy. No matter how straight he stood, or how rigid he made his body, he couldn’t make himself taller than her.

What do we have here? he demanded.

Andy quirked her brow at him. The SWAT team hadn’t waited for instructions. They’d immediately fanned out, searching the area for the gunman. Andy had relayed the location of the suspected shooter to the SWAT team leader. She didn’t feel the need to update the Feeb.

We have a case for the NYPD, that’s what we have here, Andy said.

Wiggins moved in closer to her. He tried to intimidate her with his stare, but realized he’d failed when Andy just rolled her eyes. I’m with the FBI, Miss—?

Moor.

Well, Miss Moor, I will decide who investigates what around here.

NYPD gets first crack, since they were on scene when the incident occurred.

Terrorist activities—

Andy growled low in her throat when she heard several civilians standing nearby murmur the word terrorism.

We have no reason to believe this was an act of terrorism, Pipsqueak, Andy muttered. She shoved her finger into Wiggins’ chest, pushing him back a pace. You’ll want to mind your tongue before you create mass panic.

Detectives are on their way, Poppy said, trying to placate her sister while not giving up any ground to the Feds.

Wiggins grunted out something unintelligible before moving back towards the body.

He’s going to be a problem, Poppy whispered.

Only if your detectives let him become one, Andy said. They have to nip Pipsqueak’s desire to lead this investigation in the bud.

They waited close to an hour before the Detectives showed up. Traffic must have been murder.

Andy was first to spot the dark-haired, sexy beast walking towards them. His entire demeanour just screamed cop. And he’d be nothing less than Homicide, she was sure of it. She judged him at a couple inches over six feet and super fit. His eyes scanned the crowds, taking in the scene and everyone around him.

Bet he’s thorough, she said, gesturing towards the man still twenty feet away. Wouldn’t object to him frisking me for a few hours.

Poppy raised her eyes, saw who Andy was motioning to, and muttered under her breath.

Oh, had a run in with him, have you? Andy said. She studied him another moment. He’s sexy, no question. You make a play for him?

Poppy’s mouth dropped open. She slammed it shut, then growled at her sister. No, I did not. And keep your mouth shut. I’ll handle this.

Andy shrugged, but knew it wouldn’t be that easy.

I’m Detective Poppy Moor, Midtown South, Robbery, she said, holding her hand out to the sexy beast.

Detective Jack Stone and my partner, Detective Tony Pritchard, he said, shaking her hand as he gestured to the man beside him. He glanced at the Santa, at Andy, and then back at Poppy. What have we got?

Dead guy, Andy said, before Poppy could speak.

Jack raised a brow at her. So I see. Any idea how he got dead?

Shot in the chest. Recent. But not here, she said. Then shot in the chest again. High-powered rifle. Rooftop of that building, she said, pointing out the one in question.

You never said you saw the shooter! Wiggins yelled at her. He stormed over from the body, getting in close to her.

You never asked, Andy said, using her most bored tone.

You’re withholding information. I could have you arrested for that.

Ooh, scared, Andy muttered.

Wiggins got in her face, as much as he could. You’ll be shaking by the time I’m done with you.

Easy now, Jack cut in, pushing the little guy aside. Who are you? he demanded of the man.

Special Agent Mark Wiggins, FBI.

It’s like he has it on auto-repeat, Andy murmured to Poppy.

Probably whispers it in his sleep, Poppy said.

Wiggins glared at both of them, ignoring Pritchard’s snort of laughter. Before he could speak, Jack held up a hand.

We’ll determine jurisdiction later. Right now, I want to know what happened here.

Poppy relayed all of the information she had already told Dispatch. When she got to the part about the sniper shooting their dead Santa, Jack cut in.

You saw the building he was on? he asked Andy.

Yep. Told your SWAT team where to look.

Jack studied her again. Attractive, even bundled up for the winter he could tell she was fit. Plump mouth, big blue eyes, dark hair, her face just begged for a man to hold it in his hands.

How do you know it was a high-powered rifle? Jack asked.

Andy smirked. Had to be, didn’t it? To make this distance? It wasn’t any great distance, truth be told, but it was definitely out of range for a handgun to have any sort of accuracy. Plus, she’d seen the silhouette against the shooter’s leg.

Jack narrowed his eyes, no longer intrigued by her pretty face. Few people would recognize the signs of a trained shooter working from a distance. Cops, military, and other shooters, mainly. Before he could continue, Wiggins piped up.

When I assign a task force to this case, I’ll see that you’re left in the cold, Detective.

First off, you don’t assign task forces, Andy said. They wouldn’t give that much responsibility to a pipsqueak asshole like you.

Jack rolled his eyes, but Andy forged on.

"Second, if the FBI comes in on this, they can’t leave the investigating detectives out of it. We all have to play together now."

We? Jack said. Who are you?

She’s my sister, Poppy cut in, worried that Andy was going to say something reckless. She has an overactive imagination.

Andy scowled at Poppy, ignoring the woman’s widened eyes and the shake of her head. Poppy should know it wouldn’t be easy to pull one over on this cop. Andy already knew it would be best to play it straight with him. Didn’t mean she was going to, just that it would be best.

She held out her hand. Andy Moor, CIA.

Oho, the CIA, Pritchard crowed. Trumps your FBI card, Wiggins.

No, it doesn’t, Wiggins said, but with a little less heat.

Detective Stone gripped her hand as he tried to stare her down. Andy barely blinked, used to male power plays. She held back her smirk, knowing it would toss alcohol onto the fire. And she tried not to glance at her sister.

ID, Jack demanded.

Andy nodded, patting her left pocket. When she got his nod of approval, she dug it out and flipped it open for him.

Jack studied the information, copying her employee number into his book. Andromeda Moor, Active CIA Field Agent.

Andromeda? he asked.

Andy, she insisted.

Jack shrugged. He kind of liked her full name. It was different, and feminine. It went with the face and her eyes, which reminded him of the sky as it just turned to night. What’s the CIA want with this guy? Jack demanded.

Wrong place, wrong time, Andy assured him. I was in line for a coffee when I spotted him. Asked Poppy to see about getting him into a shelter for the night. Saw he’d gotten shot, Poppy called it in, then he got shot again, and here we are.

Jack studied the crowd, looking for anyone who either showed too much interest, or not enough. If the shooter had come down from his perch to admire his handiwork, he could be anywhere. He could have dumped his rifle, stowed it somewhere for later retrieval, or broken it down and concealed it in shopping bags.

No one stood out, but that didn’t mean the guy wasn’t there. The crime scene techs were collecting photographic evidence of the people in the area. He’d have to look through them and study each face, just to be sure their killer wasn’t right there, watching the action.

He studied Andy for a moment, wondering if she was telling the truth, too. Wrong place, wrong time, or targeted CIA shooting? Was she the spotter? If so, who was the dead guy?

Jack sensed there was more she wasn’t telling him. Maybe it was his general distrust of other agencies. The spooks didn’t work locally, or so they wanted everyone to believe. It was possible that Andromeda Moor was an innocent bystander. The longer he looked at her, the less he bought that. There was nothing innocent about her.

We’ll need to take a formal statement from both of you, he said. I’ll need some time here, so if you’ll give me your contact information, I’ll set something up at the station later today.

Andy handed him her card, matte silver with her number in black in the centre. No name, no other information.

Stone raised a brow at the card, but she didn’t comment. He wrote her name above her number and tucked the card into his book. Poppy gave him her cell number, which he wrote down, along with her badge number and the name of her Inspector.

He dismissed them, watching as they vetoed their need for coffee in exchange for leaving the area. Since the temperature had dropped a few degrees, he couldn’t blame them for seeking shelter from the wind and cold.

What do you make of her? his partner, Detective Pritchard, asked.

CIA, very tight-lipped. She knows something about this, and not just the location of the shooter’s perch.

Kind of interesting that out of all the people in this square, Dead Santa collapses against a wall right near her.

Yeah, it begs the question, was she expecting him? Jack glanced down at the victim. Was this some sort of exchange gone wrong?

A dead drop? Pritchard said.

Jack snorted out a laugh. Trust Tony to cut through the tension in the air. They could joke, but when it came to their investigation, they were serious and dedicated. Whatever the truth was, they’d find it. And if the truth implicated one Andromeda Moor, well, that was too bad, because he’d kind of liked her.

Chapter Two

CIA? Poppy demanded, the minute the door closed on Andy’s hotel room. It was closer and far more spacious than Poppy’s apartment. You’re an agent with the CIA now?

Yeah, so? Andy pulled off gloves, hat, scarf, dropping them on the couch. Her room boasted a separate bedroom, which she’d sprung for in a weak moment. She hadn’t enjoyed creature comforts for the better part of the past year. Her last two contracts hadn’t allowed for them.

You promised! Poppy cried out.

Andy shrugged. I promised I wouldn’t take any more independent contract work. I didn’t promise that I wouldn’t make them legit contracts.

Independent contract work? Is that what they call assassins now? Poppy demanded, hands on her hips.

Pretty much, Andy said, deadpan. I thought about putting it on my business card, but I think the phone number by itself is cooler. Saved me getting new cards when I joined the Company.

This is a joke for you? Poppy asked, hurt.

Humour keeps you sane, Andy said.

Before Poppy could snarl at her, Andy held up her hand. I don’t get why you’re so steamed about this. I’m legit now. That’s what you wanted.

Poppy growled, stomping around the small room. I nearly lost my mind when I heard what you were doing. And my job!

They couldn’t pin any of it on me, and therefore couldn’t pin the association on you. Your job was never in jeopardy.

Now it is!

It is not, Andy insisted. You can now claim an in with the spooks. Maybe parlay that into a move to Homicide. Though why her sister would want to stare at dead people all day was beyond Andy. Once they got dead, she booked it. No need to stand around and study the mess.

Why? Poppy demanded.

Andy let out a huff of breath. We do what we’re good at. You have a way with the puzzles of a crime. You can see eight steps ahead, pinpoint where the target is going next. It works in your line. I lack empathy for most people, except you. That makes me the perfect killing tool.

How are we even related? Poppy said, on a gusty sigh.

Andy took her sister’s hands, holding them lightly. Mostly through bad luck and circumstance, though the DNA report proves we also share blood ties.

Poppy laughed, because Andy wanted her to. As a cop who meted out justice by adhering to a predetermined set of guidelines, laws, she couldn’t understand what her sister did. She’d never crossed paths with the CIA before. None of her cases had ever warranted their involvement.

"Don’t think too hard on