Second Shot

Book 1: Helen Warwick Thriller

by Cindy Dees

Genres: Spy Thrillers; Suspense; Thrillers

Synopsis

A high-intensity thriller filled with authenticity and breathtaking action from New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Cindy Dees.



Retirement isn't easy for a former CIA assassin. For fifty-five-year-old Helen Warwick, it may be impossible. Even Helen's family doesn't know the true nature of the work she's done for decades—the secret black ops, the sanctioned executions. But her plan to spend time reconnecting with her grown children has just been blown up—along with her son's house—by hired killers. Why is she being targeted now—and by whom?



Years of eliminating the nation's enemies one sniper bullet at a time have earned Helen powerful adversaries. Then there are mysterious new foes, including a psychopath dubbed The DaVinci Killer, who wages a twisted war with a rival serial killer to turn murder into art. And when he sets his sights on Helen, she may very well become his next exhibit.



From homegrown spies to Russian mafia hitmen, Helen's ghosts don't just haunt—they kill. And staying alive long enough to make up for the past, and protect those closest to her, will take every ounce of skill she possesses . . .

Release date: May 23, 2023

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

HELEN WARWICK STARED AT THE GLOSSY BLACK DOOR WITH ITS period-accurate brass knocker and kickplate. It was as carefully understated as every other door in this upscale Georgetown neighborhood and screamed of wealth and privilege.

Since when did her middle child become all of this? For that matter, when did Peter grow up? One minute he’d been a bright, charming child with no talent for sports but a discerning eye for everything and everyone around him, and the next he was an upwardly mobile Gen Whatever-they-were up-to-now’er with a live-in boyfriend, an art collection, a prestigious address, and a puppy.

It was her fault, of course, that she’d missed so much of his childhood. She’d missed far too much of all her children’s lives. But, at long last, this was her chance to make up for it in some small measure.

Retirement. Motherhood. She could do this.

She lifted the knocker and let it fall.

Liang—Li to the family—opened the door immediately. “Mrs. Warwick. So good of you to puppysit for us tonight.”

She air-kissed him on both cheeks and held out a slightly singed apple pie balanced in her left hand. “Housewarming gift.”

“Did you bake this?” he asked in genuine surprise, taking the pie as she set her purse down on the impeccable Louis XV credenza.

“I did. Eat it at your own peril.”

He laughed warmly and led her into the kitchen where a small Renoir pastel casually filled a wall beside the refrigerator. It was the study for part of a more famous piece, but still a work of art in its own right. Where the boys got the money for such things, she didn’t know and didn’t ask. Of course, it didn’t hurt that Peter was an art dealer in an auction house that sold antiques and fine art. But still. Renoir?

“Don’t you look nice tonight, Mother,” Peter said coolly, sweeping into the kitchen with all the style he usually did. He wore a crisply tailored black suit that was just shy of being a tuxedo.

She’d agonized in her own closet for longer than she cared to admit, pondering what to wear to a puppysitting date. What clothing struck a tone of apology, commitment to building a relationship, and motherly love without sacrificing the cool sophistication she knew Peter cherished in all things? She’d settled on black wool slacks, a simple cashmere sweater, and a pair of black, Italian leather, stiletto-heeled bootlets that had to have cost more than her car. Thank God the agency had footed the bill for them as part of a disguise she’d worn a few years back at an Italian opera house.

“You look dashing as always, darling,” she murmured, air-kissing him as well. When did her children stop actually hugging her, anyway? Probably too many parental mistakes ago for her to remember.

“Your mother baked us a pie,” Li announced to fill the silence already filling the chasm yawning between her and her offspring.

“You bake?” Peter asked blankly.

“Shocking. I know. Who’d have guessed I was capable of mastering the domestic arts?” When Peter pulled a skeptical face, she added, “Don’t answer that.”

The silence crept forward again.

“So, where’s this new granddog of mine?” she asked with cheer she hoped didn’t sound forced.

“He’s having a time-out at the moment,” Li supplied, gesturing toward a custom wood crate with sliding screen front doors that looked like a piece of furniture. A small Calder sculpture was displayed on top of the . . . puppy cabinet.

Peter added, in complete seriousness, “We got a little rambunctious earlier and refused to poop after our supper.”

“Is that a group activity in your house?” she asked dryly.

Peter rolled his eyes as Li opened the large crate and scooped out a roly-poly blond furball that was possibly the cutest creature she’d ever seen.

She cooed in genuine adoration of the twelve-week-old golden retriever. “Have you boys settled on a name for your progeny?”

Li and Peter smiled at each other and said together, “Biscuit.”

“Too cute.” She reached out. “May I?”

Li passed her the squirming pup, who had a fat pink tummy, sharp little claws, huge, bright brown eyes, and a black button nose. She held him up to gaze into his eyes. The little scamp stuck out his tiny pink tongue and licked the tip of her nose.

“I’m officially in love,” she declared.

“Gee. If that was all it took, I’d have licked your nose years ago,” Peter muttered.

“Be nice,” Li murmured.

She absorbed the jab without comment. After all, she hadn’t raised any of her children to be weak souls afraid to express their opinions. In that, at least, she’d succeeded as a parent.

“What’s the routine with young Master Biscuit?” she asked.

“He’ll need to go out once an hour on the hour,” Li answered briskly. “Carry him to the backyard and put him down in the grass. Whistle until he potties. You can whistle, can’t you?”

“Yes, dear. I can whistle.”

“Perfect. He goes to bed at ten. Put him in his crate and close the slats. He’ll complain, but ignore him. He’ll go to sleep in a few minutes.”

“He has already had supper, and we’re not feeding him people food,” Peter added. “So no snacks.”

She sensed a grandmotherly rebellion forthcoming. It was clearly her job to spoil her granddog, and she wasn’t about to shirk her duty.

“Mother . . .” Peter said warningly.

“All right, already. I’ll behave.” Not.

Li took up reciting the puppy instruction manual to her. “We’re staying for the fireworks but should be home by two a.m. After bedtime, Biscuit only needs to go out every two hours. If he gets hungry, at midnight you can feed him the snack I left in the fridge. It’s in a bowl with his name on it.”

“What’s in it?”

“Ground lamb, fresh pumpkin puree, scrambled egg, and rice.”

“This dog eats better than I do,” she commented.

“Here is his gear drawer.” Peter showed her, pulling a wide, shallow drawer in the puppy crate–cabinet-thing open. “There’s a harness, leash, ThunderShirt, earmuffs for fireworks and other loud noises, teething ring, plush toys, and a spare blanket with his mother’s scent on it. Emergency veterinarian’s phone number is on this card, and text me if you have any questions.”

“He’s a puppy, Peter. He eats, poops, and sleeps. How hard can he be to take care of? I didn’t kill you, did I?”

As if to make up for the dire look her son threw at her, Li kissed her on the cheek. “Hang in there,” he whispered as he leaned close.

She smiled gratefully at him for the vote of support. But she knew full well how far she had to go to rebuild bridges with her family. If it was even possible.

She and the puppy walked Peter and Liang to the front door and locked it behind them. And then it was just she and Biscuit. He gave a little whimper, and she tucked him under her chin, nuzzling his silky soft fur fondly. “You don’t hate me, do you, little nugget?”

The boys had purchased two town houses side by side and knocked out the walls between them, gutting and renovating them into a grand and gracious space. On the left side of the ground floor were a formal living room, dining room, kitchen, and breakfast nook. A long hall ran down the center of the house, and on the other side were two offices, a library, and a fully equipped home gym. A casual family room ran the entire width of the back of the house with floor-to-ceiling glass windows looking out on the newly landscaped formal garden and outdoor kitchen/living room.

The boys had only moved in a few weeks ago but had already done wonders with the place. In her wildest dreams, she could never pull together a space this eclectic, chic, and achingly sophisticated. Maybe she could hire them to redo the house she nominally shared with Grayson Warwick, her mostly absent husband.

She didn’t want to think about that problematic relationship right now. Dealing with Peter’s simmering resentment was enough for one evening.

She dutifully took Biscuit to the backyard and felt like an idiot standing there beside him in the dark, shivering and whistling until he squatted and peed. Shaking her head, she scooped him up and carried him inside.

“Congratulations on successfully training your humans to make complete fools of themselves in twelve short weeks, my friend.”

Li had thoughtfully chilled a crisp, white wine and laid out a selection of old-world cheeses and sausages for her. Biscuit loved the cheese and sausage, and they reminded her of Berlin. Good times in that cosmopolitan city . . .

She noshed on the snacks and sat down to watch television in the family room, where the massive flat screen took up an entire wall. She cruised through the channels until she found a movie. Ahh. Casablanca. An oldie but a goodie, even if the spy tradecraft in the film was dreadful.

Biscuit curled up beside her on the overstuffed sofa and settled down to sleep. Ten o’clock came and went, along with a potty check, but the puppy didn’t wake. Common sense told her not to disturb the little guy.

Rick told Louis he thought it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship, and the credits began to roll when she heard faint popping noises outside. She tensed sharply, and her gaze darted around the room. French doors to the backyard. Kitchen entrance to the left, library entrance to the right. Hallway in the middle. It had the best sight line to the backyard but no cover. Sofa would provide visual cover only. That poker table could be turned on its side in a pinch to defend against gunfire. Better to head for the kitchen with its stone counters and solid wood cabinets for protection from incoming rounds—

Oh, for the love of Mike, stand down, Helen.

It was New Year’s Eve, and that was just some kids lighting off firecrackers in the alley.

Whether it was the pop-pop-popping or her sharp reaction to it she couldn’t tell, but Biscuit jerked awake, lifting his head and listening alertly, his fuzzy, little ears perked.

“Past time for a pit stop for you, young man.”

She carried him outside and set him down in the grass. The popping noises were louder out here. Amazing how much they sounded like gunfire. No wonder veterans had PTSD problems on nights like this.

Apparently, she, too, was going to have to learn not to reach for a weapon whenever she heard fireworks. Her nerves were too on edge to bring herself to whistle—one did not call attention to oneself when bullets were flying. The dog showed no interest in voiding his bladder, perhaps because she refused to mortify herself with the whistling routine.

Regardless, she picked him up and scuttled inside, eager to get under cover as yet another volley of loud pops erupted in the alley. This one was accompanied by raucous shouts and girlish screams. Kids. They had no idea how their commotion unsettled people like her.

It was almost midnight. She should cut herself a slice of pie and make a celebration out of her first New Year’s as a retired person. That, and she would prove to the boys she hadn’t poisoned their housewarming gift.

She opened drawers until she found one in the quartz waterfall island with a built-in knife rack and a dozen chef-quality knives. She pulled one out, sliced the pie, and used the blade to scoop a piece onto a plate.

A bright red glow flashed, and a second later, the distant thunder of the big New Year’s Eve fireworks show on the Mall began.

Mindful of the puppy not being traumatized by the loud noises, she held him tucked under her left arm and dug around in the puppy drawer with her free hand. “Now where did your fathers put your earmuffs—”

The lights went out, plunging the house into darkness.

Adrenaline surged through her veins unbidden, and her body went light and fast, ready for violence.

What on earth?

The clock on the stove and the touch pad on the refrigerator had also gone dark. Starbursts outside sent neon strobes of green, blue, and red through the black house. Her instincts fired off a strident warning, so insistent she couldn’t possibly ignore the alarms shouting in her skull.

Grabbing the pie knife, she dropped to a crouch beside the crate and listened tautly. All she heard was the steady, distant boom-boom-boom.

Sheesh. Overreacting, much? It was just a fireworks display. And she was a civilian, now. Out of the game—

Deafening automatic weapon fire erupted all at once. With an almighty crash, the entire glass-walled back of the house exploded inward. Glass flew everywhere as gunfire raked the family room.

Crap on a cracker.

Feathers filled the air as the sofa exploded. The glow of fireworks punctuated the attack, and wood and pieces of furniture flew every which way in the strobe-like flashes. Something hot and wickedly sharp sliced across her left arm with the neat precision of a scalpel. She knew that pain. She’d gotten winged by a bullet.

Instinctively, she folded over the puppy, protecting his little body with hers. Fast roll into the puppy crate. Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out.

A quiet crunch of a boot on glass. Another. A hostile was moving into the kitchen.

Quietly, carefully, she tugged the blanket inside the crate around the puppy, wrapping him like a burrito, praying it would keep him quiet and still. Gripping the knife tightly, she waited in an agony of suspense for what came next.

Legs came into her line of sight. Military-style boots, black cargo pants, leather thigh holster strapped down. A few more steps—

The gunman passed the crate.

She rolled out and stabbed with all her might, burying the sharp blade of her knife in the back of the man’s knee. He screamed and went down as she jumped and landed with both knees in the middle of his back.

He was fast and strong and tried to roll over. He almost succeeded in throwing her off, but she hung on grimly as he rolled onto his side and then on top of her. He failed to trap her arms underneath him. She grabbed a handful of his hair, yanked his chin back, and slashed hard with the knife.

The assailant thrashed on top of her, knocking her head hard against the floor in his death throes. She shoved for all she was worth and managed to roll him off her. She scrambled to her feet, blinking away the spots dancing in front of her eyes, her high-heeled shoes slipping and sliding in the spreading puddle of blood.

In the flashes of fireworks, black blood welled from her attacker’s mutilated throat. His hands fell away from clutching at the mortal wound, and she dived over him to snatch up his weapon, which had clattered to the floor.

It was an urban assault rifle. Russian ASh-12.7. She dropped it into place against her shoulder and rested her index finger on the trigger. Pausing to kick off her high heels, she advanced fast and silent, knees bent, on stockinged feet.

Odds were the other shooter was advancing through the far side of the ground floor. Crouching, she swung low into the hallway. Clear left. Clear right.

Using the tip of the weapon’s barrel, she nudged open the half bath door under the stairs. Clear.

She heard a bump and a faint grunt in the library and raced down the hall on the balls of her feet, ducking into the dining room, listening hard for any more shooters than just the two.

Then the front doorknob rattled slightly, and she swore under her breath. A third hostile outside. Bastards must’ve planned to herd her through the house and out the front door into an ambush. By her recommendation, Peter and Liang had installed a top-notch German lock in the front door. If the guy out front thought he was picking it fast and joining the fight, he was sadly mistaken.

Gliding into the formal living room, she cleared the space quickly and eased across the foyer into Peter’s office. His desk was an antique, a massive wooden beast that would stop a small tank. Crouching behind it, she propped the barrel of the weapon on the writing surface and pointed it at the door to Liang’s adjoining office. Exhaling slowly, she forcibly slowed her heart rate.

Now it was a waiting game.

Then she heard a sound that made her blood run cold. Little claws scrabbling on hardwood. She swore silently. Biscuit had wiggled free of his blanket restraint. Little scamp was running through the living room. Did she shift her aim to the foyer on the assumption that the shooter would be drawn to the sound of the puppy, or did she hold position, aiming at Li’s office?

She had a split second to decide.

Instinct said to stay put.

In the very next breath, a black shadow spun fast through the doorway between the offices, crouching low, sweeping the office with his weapon.

She double tapped two shots at his center of mass, counting on the high-powered rounds to slam him backward against the wall and knock the breath out of him even if he had on a bullet-resistant vest.

The guy grunted and landed on the floor, leaning against the wall, but he was still functional enough to swing his weapon toward her.

Adjusting her aim a hair’s breadth higher, she squeezed off two more fast shots. The hostile’s throat exploded in a fountain of blood, but the weapon jammed on her second shot, the trigger balking and refusing to pull through. Piece of crap Russian hardware. Her target toppled over and lay still while she rapidly considered her options.

What she really wanted was her own trusty pistol, currently in her purse, sitting on the Louis XV credenza in the foyer. Laying down the Russian weapon, she eased out from behind the desk.

But then the downed man across the room moved, so she bolted forward, darting back out into the foyer and out of range of any dying-breath heroics.

The front doorknob was turning. She dived for her purse, snatching at it as she sprinted past the table, searching frantically for Biscuit ahead of her in the living room.

She missed the purse and only succeeded in knocking it on its side, the shoulder strap dangling just above the floor. But she couldn’t go back. The door was opening. She lunged past it, scooped up the puppy, and dived for cover behind the sofa.

Landing hard on her shoulder—the one that had gotten hit in the initial attack—she lost her grip on the frantic, wriggly puppy, who rolled out of her arms.

Crap, crap, crap.

Peering under the couch, she saw the third hostile come in hot, charging into the foyer, aggressively swinging his weapon left and right. He raced down the hallway, his boots disappearing from her limited line of sight.

Biscuit raced after him, running into the middle of the foyer when a new barrage of fireworks, as loud and insistent as an artillery battle, peppered the night. Underneath the deafening thunder of noise, she whispered urgently, “Biscuit! Come, Biscuit!”

The puppy panicked and bolted straight ahead, ramming nose-first into the credenza, where he yelped and promptly got tangled in the dangling shoulder strap of her purse.

Frantic, he scrambled to free himself, to no avail.

Terrified, and completely overwhelmed, Biscuit squatted right there in the front hall and peed on the antique Aubusson rug.

The pantry and wine room doors slammed open in the kitchen.

Holding her hands out to the puppy, she tried again. “Come to Granny. Come, Biscuit.”

Perhaps her outstretched fingers still smelled like salami, or maybe he wanted a hug, but the pup, still tangled in her purse strap, stumbled toward her, dragging her purse off the credenza. As it thudded to the floor behind him he lurched forward, dragging the purse behind him through the puddle of pee and into the living room doorway.

He finally jerked free but not before the shoulder strap fell within reach of her outstretched hand.

She was out of time. With a shove, she pushed up off her belly, burst out of her hiding place, and leaped forward. Staying low, she scooped up the dog with her left hand and her purse with her right, and bolted for the stairs.

The shooter in the kitchen leaped out into the hall and fired wildly, sending a spray of lead into the wall below her feet. She ducked as splinters of wood pelted her and dived for the steps, fumbling frantically in her purse.

Her fist closed around the familiar grip of her EDC X9 Wilson Combat handgun. She didn’t bother pulling it out of the bag. She rose to her knees and fired down at the shooter below through the leather of her purse—two fast shots, one through the top of his head, the second through the back of his neck as he pitched forward, facedown.

A cloud of mist hung in the air where his head had been, illuminated by the now continuous flash of fireworks. She pushed to her feet, picked up Biscuit, and raced upstairs, tearing into the master bedroom. She paused inside only long enough to lock the door.

Sprinting for the bathroom, she locked that door as well, stopping only when she’d jumped into the separate throne room, locked that door, and sat down on the floor beside the toilet, panting.

Finally freeing her weapon from her ruined purse, she set Biscuit on the tiled floor and dug around in her bag for her cell phone. She dialed 911 as reaction set in and her fingers began to tremble.

“Go ahead,” the dispatcher’s voice said cheerfully.

God. He sounded about twelve years old.

She took a deep breath and reminded herself to sound like a panicked civilian. “You have to send help! There’s been a shooting at the following address.” She rattled it off. “Do you have anything nearby with a siren? Maybe it would scare the bad guys away.”

“Ma’am, those are fireworks you’re hearing—”

“I’ve been shot. I think I saw three bad guys. Maybe more!”

“Where are you now, ma’am?”

“Locked in the master bathroom, upstairs.”

“I’ve dispatched a police cruiser.”

“Send all the police!”

“Ma’am, if you’ll tell me what’s going on—”

She interrupted impatiently. “I told you. A gang of armed bad guys broke into my son’s house and shot the place up. And they shot me, too.”

“Where are you shot, ma’am?”

“In the arm.”

“I’ve dispatched an ambulance. You should lie down on the floor until medics arrive.”

“It hurts like fire, but it’s not bleeding a lot. I don’t think it’s serious. . . not that I know a blessed thing about gunshot wounds,” she added.

Her left arm was, in fact, burning as if a hot poker lay across her biceps. Dang it. Her new sweater was ruined, too. She tore off a wad of toilet paper and used it to dab at her wound. The hot lead must have partially cauterized her wound, which would explain the lack of profuse bleeding.

“Umm, who is this?” the dispatcher asked warily.

She ignored the question, asking instead, “When are the police going to get here?” She dropped her voice to a whisper, as if it had just occurred to her the bad guys might still be running around the house. “What if the intruders find me up here?”

“The first police cruiser will be there any time, now.”

Sure enough, a police siren became faintly audible. It rapidly grew louder until it was screaming outside the house. If that hadn’t scared away any remaining intruders, nothing would. Thankfully, the police turned off the siren before long, and deep silence fell over the house. The distant rumble of the fireworks continued unabated, heedless of the death and destruction going on below their star-spangled roar.

She strained to hear any movement but heard only her own breath and the puppy’s anxious panting. Li’l guy had been a champ, all things considered.

Outside, police would be stacking up beside the open front door, diving in guns first, clearing the ground floor room by room. She heard them shouting back and forth. Reaction started to crowd forward in her body, a stew of mostly rage and a little fear.

Who were the shooters? Why here? Was she the target? She was out of the game. Off the chessboard. Why this, then? Who had it in for her bad enough to break all norms of civilized spy behavior?

A male voice spoke up right outside the commode door. “Ma’am, are you in there? The house is secure.”

“What’s your badge number?” she demanded, pointing her pistol at the door. He was a hostile until he proved otherwise.

He rattled off his name, rank, and badge number without any hint of hesitation.

Her body went limp with relief. She stood up, her legs protesting as she unfolded her body from the cold, hard floor. Sharp needles of returning circulation made her wince as she picked up the dog, unlocked the door, and squinted into the beam of a high-intensity, military-grade flashlight.

“Three men are dead downstairs,” the cop reported. “And it appears that a fourth one fled through the alley, perhaps on a motorcycle.”

Four men? She should probably be complimented that such a big hit squad had been sent in to take her out. Still, this wasn’t supposed to be happening. She was retired.

“Who else was in the house with you at the time of the incident, ma’am?”

“Nobody. It was just me and my granddog.”

“You shot those men?” the cop blurted.

Crud, crud, crud. Speaking in a breathless soprano, she gasped, “I was so scared, Officer. I just closed my eyes and pulled the trigger. Did I hit anything?”

“You could say so,” the cop said dryly. “Since you discharged a firearm that resulted in a death, we’re going to need you to come down to the station, answer some questions, and make a written statement. After a medic takes a look at your arm.”

“Of course.” She added a nervous, fluttery wave with her hand for effect. Although, the pistol gripped in her fist probably ruined the helplessness of the wave. “You’re sure it’s safe out here?” she asked nervously as she stepped into the bedroom.

“Yes, ma’am. The scene is secured.” The officer snagged her gun as she waved it past him, then checked the chamber and safety before saying, “This weapon will have to be entered into evidence.”

With Biscuit still tucked under her left arm, she followed him downstairs to the foyer, picking her way cautiously through the splinters, broken glass, and puppy pee. “Is there any chance I could get my shoes? I must’ve run right out of them, I was so scared.”

“Wait here, ma’am. This is an active crime scene.”

Keen observation, Sherlock. Careful to keep her eyes wide and wondering, she looked around the destroyed ground floor. It looked like a freaking war zone. As the cop held out her designer bootlets, she wailed, “Look at this mess! My son is going to kill me.”

HELEN FINALLY DROVE AWAY FROM THE POLICE PRECINCT AT NEARLY 3:00 a.m. The police were unsure of what to make of her. On the one hand, they had three dead bodies, shot with all the cold precision of the trained sniper that she was. But on the other, they had the flustered middle-aged woman sitting in a chair in front of them, wringing her hands, adamantly sticking to her story—she’d simply closed her eyes and pulled the trigger in self-defense. Poor coppers just couldn’t seem to reconcile the two.

It had gotten a bit tricky to explain the knife in the back of Hostile Number One’s knee, but she claimed that Biscuit had peed and the bad guy slipped in the puddle. As best she could tell, he’d grabbed at the counter as he went down, knocked the pie knife off the counter, and somehow landed on top of it, stabbing himself in the leg. Bad luck, that.

She readily admitted to using the knife to cut herself a piece of pie, of course, which explained her fingerprints on the weapon.

Her lawyer, whom she’d called from the foyer of Peter and Li’s house, met her at the police station. He argued stridently that the hundreds of rounds the intruders had fired made her armed response an open-and-shut case of self-defense. Eventually, without any hard evidence to refute self-defense in response to a home invasion, the police had been forced to let her go. But they didn’t like it. They smelled a rat, but they just couldn’t spot it.

She made a mental note to avoid crossing paths. . .