Free Aim to Kill by Allison Brennan Page A

over, picked up the only picture on his cluttered desk, and stared at Amy’s secretive smile. Lips together, turned slightly up, her dark eyes lit with humor and a touch of mischief.
    God, he had loved her.
    Bristow’s door slammed open. “Kirby!” he called.
    So, maybe sending the e-mail wasn’t the wisest thing to do, but changing the article at the last minute when he’d been covering the crime beat for eight years—that was low, even for his editor.
    He stood. “Coming,” he called.
    But Bristow was already crossing the floor. Most everyone had left for the day, but Kirby had a feeling the senior editor lived in the building. There wasn’t a time of day or night that Kirby was here when Bristow wasn’t.
    “Get out to Vashon Island ASAP. There’s some sort of police activity, all hush-hush on the band, but one of my contacts said the sheriff called in Detective Travis. My gut says it’s the Slayer.”
    Kirby cringed at the killer’s moniker. “Mr. Bristow, I think we need to tread lightly in this case. I—”
    The editor waved his hand as he lit a cigarette. It was a nonsmoking building. Bristow took that to mean nonsmoking during business hours. Then, he smoked in his office. “I saw your e-mail. Funny. You work the beat, I’ll clean your copy. Now go, before you miss the damn ferry.”
    Kirby stuffed his camera and notepad into his backpack and slung it over his shoulder.
    He had to find another paper to work for. Nothing was keeping him in Seattle now that Amy was dead.
    Except a promise.
     
    He prided himself on his discipline.
    He planned each operation precisely, from the vehicle he stole to the neighborhood he targeted to the girl he chose. Patience. Planning. Discipline.
    Two or three times he’d acted on impulse. The first time, of course, but that worked out amazingly well. After all, stealing Hall’s truck turned attention to someone else. It was after that he decided he would steal trucks for every operation. That took finding the least likely vehicle to be reported stolen, which was surprisingly easy. He generally picked people going on vacation. More often than not, they took a taxi or shuttle to the airport. Picking locks was child’s play; virtually everyone had an extra set of car keys in the house. He had use of their truck for days and no one reported it stolen.
    He preferred either American trucks or SUVs because they were big, he understood the mechanics, and they were common. If he selected a pickup, it had to have a shell over the bed for privacy; an SUV needed darkened windows and collapsible rear seats. Cars were too small and their trunks usually stuffed with the owner’s junk, and cargo vans were out of the question; they immediately appeared suspicious sitting in a residential neighborhood.
    Sometimes he made mistakes. Like the time in
Texas
when the daughter came home from college to house-sit. Close call, but he’d talked his way out of that one.
    If only that bitch had known she was minutes away from dying. He’d wanted to reach out, wrap his hands around her neck, and squeeze. Squeeze until her neck snapped.
    But rash actions like that could have drawn attention to him, and he had more important operations to plan.
    His sweet angels waited for him to free their souls.
    But three months ago he’d again acted on impulse. He’d seen his little angel running along the edge of the water, glowing. Radiating just for him. And he knew beyond a doubt she’d been sent to him.
    He’d been on the island for a year, blending in, planning. He’d already selected a neighborhood off the island, and was looking for the right truck when the angel ran along the beach and her soul sang to him.
    He brought her to his cottage. Another mistake.
    There was nowhere else to take her—he couldn’t remove her from the island because of surveillance cameras on the docks. And the authorities had started the search immediately, even before he’d secured her inside his house.
    He kept her