Page 1 of Silent Threat
Chapter One
Sunday
AN HOUR BEFOREhis death, Mitch Moritz was in as good a mood as he’d ever been. He couldn’t wait to get home. The rehab center in Broslin, Pennsylvania, had been great, everything a recovering army vet needed, but he missed his wife and kids too much.
The weeks spent in rehab were worth it, sure. He’d come in a mess—nightmares, rage, depression, anxiety—and left feeling like a man again. Still, this was definitely the best part: zipping up his suitcase and leaving.
He picked up the remote to turn off the TV, then paused to let the bald little man on the screen finish his spiel. The weatherman was hopping and beaming, trying to sound superhyped about news that was anything but sensational.
“A tropical depression in the western Caribbean was just updated to Tropical Storm Rupert. We’re going to keep a close eye on that for you folks. You know how these things go. Anything could happen.”
Mitch flicked off the TV before the guy could spin a barely there storm into the meteorological end of the world.
He gazed around the room one last time, then pulled his suitcase out into the hallway.
“Hey, good luck!” The greeting came as he turned the corner.
“Thanks.”
The man walking toward him carried two cups of coffee and a pastry bag. He gave a rueful smile. “Can never resist loading up at the cafeteria.” He held out one of the cups to Mitch. “Here. Take it. I shouldn’t drink this much coffee anyway.”
“You sure?” Mitch had a long drive ahead of him, down I-95, all the way to Florida. He hated flying. The two-day drive didn’t bother him. The weather was supposed to be clear all the way. He’d still be home for his daughter’s second birthday. “If you really don’t want it, I’d be happy to have it.”
“How about a couple of carrot muffins?” the man asked.
“My carrot-muffin days are over.” Mitch grinned. He couldn’t wait to be back on his wife’s cooking.
Thirty minutes later, he was on the six-lane highway, crossing into Maryland as he finished the last of his coffee. The brew tasted off, but he’d drunk it anyway, even if he wasn’t a fan of artificial sweeteners.
His eyes blurred. He blinked. His vision cleared.
Fifteen minutes later, a flashback slammed into him. In the car one second, inside a burning tank the next. The hallucination came in full color, complete with the smell and pain of burning flesh.
Mitch scrambled to escape, but before he could even unlatch the hatch, the tank exploded.
Then, nothing.
Then, a couple of seconds until Mitch realized he hadn’t been in an exploding tank. He’d hit a tractor trailer head-on, on the highway. His bones were broken. His entire body was wet.Blood.People were yelling around him, but he couldn’t make sense of the words.
Five minutes later—long before the ambulance reached him—Mitch Moritz was dead.
Monday
Do not confront your stalker.
That sounded like a smart rule, the kind of advice the cops—or any sane person—would give.
Annie Murray pivoted on her heels in line inside the gas station and looked her stalker straight in the eyes.
“You can’t keep doing this, Joey.”
She didn’t mean to sound harsh. She didn’t think she did. But Joey Franco’s eyes widened with hurt to the size of portholes through which she could see all the way to where his heart bled.
“Twenty-two fifty,” said Mac from behind the counter. “Hey, Annie.”
Robbie MacMillan and Joey were buddies, going way back, so Mac kept a studiously neutral expression, messing with the cash register and pretending he hadn’t heard Annie call Joey on his shit.
Annie swiped her credit card. Her gaze flicked to the TV on the wall behind Mac and the weatherman waxing poetic about a tropical storm named Rupert gaining strength and slowly moving toward the Greater Antilles.
